Blackbird
by TheArcher7741
Summary: As the flames of the Revolution burn higher and higher around him, Enjolras finds a broken bird, and brings it into the light of a new tomorrow. Eponine strives towards redemption, struggling to get out of the shadows of the streets of Paris.
1. Dead of Night

**It's Archer, here. I am so ADHD that whenever something shiny and new comes along, I'm distracted from everything else. For example, Les Miserables is very shiny and new to me. So I'm going to play with it until I break it, and then miserably crawl back to my other fanfictions. This is my first story without an original character, and I want to do well. If, for any second, I am Eppie-bopping, do me a favor and shoot me in the head. I can't stand Eppie-bopping. Review with your opinion! Thanks, and enjoy!**

**Blame Hugo, that genius started it.**

* * *

Eponine heard rather than felt her back slam against the brick wall of the tavern. A jolt of pain shot up her spine, numbing her arms. She crumbled to the ground in a miserable heap, head in her arms, hair tossed over her face. The figure standing above the peasant girl laughed harshly, and delivered a sharp kick to her ribs. Eponine cried out briefly, but hadn't the will to fight back. So she just laid there on the ground, with her forehead pressed against the cool stone, every inch of her throbbing with pain.

She let herself close her eyes and sink into the darkness of her mind. In vivid imagery, she relived the horror of the last three hours. Until now, she had just shut down. She didn't see, she didn't feel, she didn't live it through. Until now. Now she watched it again. Behind her eyelids the terrible show played. Her body had been twisted in ways that it never should have bent, she was strangled and restrained and beat in turn. All for the pleasure of some sick bastard who had money in his pocket.

The clatter of coins on cobblestone brought her mind about. She roused herself and collected the money, and returned her eyes to the crease of her elbow so as not to see her client walk away. Her ribs cried out in painful protest. The night certainly left its mark on her. This night had been worse than most. Eponine's lip had been split by a backhanded blow, and her jaw throbbed from a hard right hook. A second punch had given her what promised to be a magnificent shiner. The bruises on the gamine's neck would look like fingers in the morning, as they would on her thighs. The bloody rope burns were sure to threaten infection.

It was just a cruel example of what lengths poverty-stricken people would go to. One must eat, of course, or they will die. Sometimes it felt like a decision had to be made between death, and death. Would you throw your morals and dignity away now for enough coin to stay fed, only to die from disease later? Or would you slowly starve without giving yourself the chance at survival?

The pile of skin and bones that was Eponine shuddered violently as she contemplated her decision. She pulled herself into a sitting position, slumped against the wall. Closing her eyes, she tenderly probed her nose. It was broken for sure this time. She gritted her teeth, and with a sickening crunch, set her nose straight again. Tears sprang to her eyes, tears that she refused to let fall. Eponine bit her tongue to stop from screaming as she looked at the coins on the ground.

They weren't worth the pain.

"Never again," Eponine said aloud, her voice hoarse from shouting, choking, and crying. "Tonight was the last." She croaked.

She wiped the blood from her nose with the sleeve of her overlarge coat, and slumped to the ground again. The cool stones against her forehead felt nice, but it would not do for her to just lie in the street. She cast around for her grey, ragged hat. Finding it in the dark, she placed it upon her head and pulled it low on her forehead, low enough to cast her face into shadow. Eponine heaved herself to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. She stumbled to the entrance of the tavern, fell through the door, and flung herself onto the nearest seat at the bar.

The barmaid gave a questioning glance to the bloody and bedraggled gamine, but asked nothing more than, "What'll you 'ave, mademoiselle?"

"I'll take the hardest you've got," Eponine rasped in return, in a scratchy, deep voice that had already been mangled by the drink. A headache was always starting to make itself known behind her eyes. Drinking would only make it worse when the sun came up, but for the moment, it would feel good.

The barmaid placed a small glass of whiskey on the counter in front of the girl, and returned to cleaning glasses.

Eponine took the glass in her hands and studied the yellow-brown liquid. She could smell its fumes, and she recalled it on the breath of the man she had been with minutes before. Repulsed, she considered returning it, but she shook her head and brought the glass to her lips anyways.

The alcohol hadn't touched her mouth when a group of schoolboys burst through the door of the tavern, causing Eponine to jump. She looked up feebly, and quickly hid her face behind her hair when she recognized the men who had just entered. One man in particular made her face flush with shame.

Les Amis de l'ABC had just entered, with Marius Pontmercy in their midst. Eponine could not let him see her like this. She had a good idea of what she looked like, thoroughly covered in a mix of her own blood and the dirt of the city, her hair tangled and greasy, and her teeth grimy with the black bread she had eaten hours ago. Eponine also imagined that her nose was crooked as well. She felt a stab of pain that had nothing to do with her aching ribs when she recalled seeing Cosette, his new obsession, for the first time in years.

Cosette had grown into a woman, with porcelain skin, glassy blue eyes, and blonde hair like corn silk. She wore pretty dresses and pretty shoes, and was certainly never hungry. How times had changed; once Eponine was fed and clean, and Cosette was the dirty, abused one. That was many years ago, when Eponine had possessed a childish beauty and hope for the future. Now life had turned Eponine ugly, and shattered all hope for tomorrow. Eponine envied Cosette for the privileges her life had allowed her, but not as much as she envied her for having Marius's heart. Not wanting Marius to see in in her current state, she simply laid her head in her hands and closed her eyes.

The buzz of les Amis filled the air around her head. She caught snatches of revolutionary plans, tales of conquests, and talks of current classes. Her brain began to throb and she stuck her hand out to search for her glass.

"Are you going to drink that?" A voice beside her asked. Eponine groaned and looked up into the blue eyes of the somewhat sober Grantaire. Her headache intensified at the mere sight of him. The student sat down in the stool next to her and reached for her whiskey.

"Eponine- What the deuce…?" Grantaire did a double take. He barely recognized the gamine who always seemed to be following Marius. He had seen dogs in better condition.

"Shut up, shut up, and give me my whiskey." Eponine mumbled, pulling her glass towards her. Grantaire dexterously reached over and snatched the glass from her hand, and downed it in one gulp.

"You're better off with water," He explained, waving the barmaid over. "A pitcher of water, if you will."

The barmaid placed a pitcher of water and two glasses in front of him. He poured water into both glasses, and looked up at Eponine.

She was watching Marius, as usual, as well as the rest of les Amis. Enjolras and Combeferre were reading, while Prouvaire wrote in a notebook. Feuilly casually said something about Marius's mystery girl. Marius reddened, while Enjolras rolled his eyes and Courfeyrac laughed. One more shot to Eponine's heart.

"What has happened to you? You're lucky that looks aren't everything, because in your case, they aren't anything." Grantaire pushed the glass of water to her, ignoring the murderous look he got in return. He felt a chill nonetheless; her sunken, bruised eyes intensified the already terrible stare.

"Brandy, please," Eponine growled to the barmaid, ignoring the water and Grantaire's disapproving glare.

"Thank you, Grantaire, for your concern," Eponine said sarcastically. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're bleeding." Grantaire conjured a handkerchief from his coat and soaked it in the water. "Come here," He said, reaching for Eponine's face. The whiskey made him brave, and he leant over to try to clean the girl's bleeding face. Eponine's stomach flipped in revulsion at his benevolent advance.

She jerked away as the cold cloth touched her lip. "Don't touch me!" Her insides revolted against Grantaire's proximity and she shuddered. A thousand thoughts and feelings flashed through her mind; a finger crooked at her in the darkness, the hand that was for a moment gentle turning hard and bruising her, a rope tying her wrists together, and her shoulders wrenching as her arms were forced above her head.

"Eponine, come here," Grantaire insisted, trying to clean the blood and dirt from the girl's face. Eponine swatted at him as he leaned towards her with the handkerchief. Grantaire forced the kerchief onto her face, and Eponine boxed his ear. She raised her fist and shook it to prevent him from trying again. Her skin crawled at the man's touch. Even though Grantaire was gentle, the thought of being touched by a man made Eponine want to crawl away and die. She almost lost her small stomach content right there.

Eponine shoved Grantaire away when the barmaid placed the bottle of brandy in front of her. She grabbed it and drank deeply before Grantaire could say a word.

The alcohol burned her throat, but warmed her body and alleviated her headache slightly. She brought the bottle to her lips for another draught, then another.

When that bottle was gone, she waved for another. She didn't even perceive that Grantaire was still next to her, drinking his poison of choice, absinthe.

Slowly the lights began to blur, and the chatter of the students became soft background noise. The room swam about Eponine's eyes, distorting her vision and judgment. At least her head no longer ached. She kissed the bottle once more, drinking to quench a thirst she didn't know she possessed.

Grantaire watched the bedraggled girl through a less heavy haze, and could see that she was in pain. It wasn't his problem. The absinthe confirmed this for him, and turned his thoughts to other things. He looked at his friends, sitting in the corner of the tavern. They were reading, joking, laughing, and drinking, as they always did after a day of classes, speeches, and a gathering at the Café Musain. He could hear them from his bar stool, goading Enjolras to join them in their merrymaking.

"Enjolras, the Republic can wait!" Bahorel exclaimed jokingly.

The Amis suddenly grew quiet as Enjolras looked up, a slight glitter of amusement in his blue eyes.

"But can it?" He said softly. "We drink and we eat tonight, and we say, tomorrow we shall help the lower class. Tomorrow we will work to liberate those who cannot speak for themselves. But today, today is still a day of anguish for them. They don't stop suffering because we promise them tomorrow." The entire tavern was silent, and Enjolras's quiet words drifted through Eponine's and Grantaire's alcohol haze. The two looked up to hear him.

"Today they are in the street, my friends. _Right now_ there are children dying of hunger, women dying of disease, and men dying of hard labor. And for what? Food to keep them alive for one more day?" He let the question hang in the air for a moment, and continued. "It is a vicious circle for the poor. The rich do what they do so that they stay rich and the rest struggle to survive a day. How can we let this happen? How can we allow children waste away in the darkness, untouched by the light of day? How can we let women whore themselves just to buy a scrap of bread?"

Eponine's blood boiled at his mention of prostitutes. Why; she did not know. But she listened all the more intently for it.

Enjolras stood and addressed the Amis.

"Times are changing, my friends. We must be the ones to change them! We must be the ones to bring the light of liberty to the streets. We must speak for the people, and grant them their rights! So, no, the Republic cannot wait for us to finish our ales. Forget tomorrow; we must seize the day!" His short speech ended with cheers from his friends.

"Carpe diem," Someone threw out there.

Enjolras sat back down, and put a pen to a scrap of paper and began writing furiously.

"What are you planning now, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked him.

"I believe that we need to address the "leaders" of our land," Enjolras replied. "The cost of living has increased yet again, and rents have gone up alongside taxes. I see it every day; more and more people are being tossed out of their lodgings for lack of money to pay their landlords. We must petition to have taxes lowered."

Grantaire had been listening in from across the room, and wobbled his way to the corner occupied by the Amis. "And that's going to solve everything? A petition? Words have always been your forte, Enjolras, but words alone won't grant you a Republic."

"And so the faithful wine cask returns," Enjolras muttered, and then cleared his throat. "Tell me what to do so that I may be 'granted a Republic'."

Grantaire laughed. "I," He said, and slumped into a chair at the table, "have no idea. I just know that yours is bad." Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the inebriated man.

Combeferre sensibly changed the subject. "What in God's name is sitting at the bar? I've encountered more attractive corpses on the streets."

"It's that Thenardier- Jondrette- ah, that girl that follows Marius around like a lost little dog." Grantaire said, waving a hand.

"She looks to be in pretty bad shape," Combeferre said, eyebrows furrowing.

"Rough night working the street corners?" Bahorel ventured.

"She's bound to catch her death. They all are," Joly said. He wrung his hands, distressed, as if just speaking of sexually transmitted diseases would give him herpes.

"She looks half dead as it is," Jean Prouvaire said. "And drunker than the standard-issue Grantaire."

"Her nose is broken," Joly said. "She's had some blunt force trauma on her torso, and ligature marks on her wrists. In conclusion, she's in more than _pretty bad _shape."

"Who?" Marius suddenly joined the conversation, pulling his head from his thoughts.

"Eponine," Grantaire slurred.

"Oh," Marius simply said, and returned to studying a handkerchief. The simultaneous eye rolls of Les Amis were almost audible.

The students were quiet for a moment.

Combeferre was first to speak again. "…Should we speak to her?"

Eponine heard it all, and buried her face in her hands so as not to see the looks on their faces. She did not want their pity. She sipped at her brandy again, enjoying the way it made the room spin.

"Leave her with her drink," Enjolras said evenly. "She does not want our help." Eponine let out a sigh of relief. Tipping the bottle to her lips, she closed her eyes and tried to ignore the men in the corner. But their conversation floated across the room to her anyways.

"I hear her father's a real bastard," Bahorel said quietly. "Hear he's in with that one street gang. What was it they called themselves?"

"Patron-Minette," Courfeyrac supplied.

"Yes, that's it. Those three brutes are of the worst sort. Liars, murderers, thieves and rapists, the lot of them."

"Hear, hear," Joly said. He jerked his head in Eponine's direction. "Think she's something?"

"A street walker, that's all," Prouvaire replied flippantly.

Choruses of 'poor girl' and 'damned shame' went up.

Eponine looked up darkly at them. If they knew her part in her father's business with Patron-Minette, they wouldn't be so sympathetic.

Who were they to speak of her as if they knew her? They didn't know her. They could never know her, and they would never really want to know her. Les Amis were content playing with their guns and propaganda, and talking idly about liberating the oppressed. But when they ended their nights, they had enough money to buy dinner, and not worry about being hungry when the sun came up. They paid their rent on time. The fan maker was the only man who had to work, but it wasn't hard and it paid him well.

They were just a bunch of pretty boys.

"I heard that Thenardier threw his three sons out of his house!" Feuilly said.

Eponine heard enough. She grabbed her bottle of brandy, pulled her hat low over her eyes, and staggered out the tavern door. She felt the eyes of the students burning holes in her back, but she did not look back as she tripped out onto the street.

But the alcohol made the world turn faster than Eponine could comprehend, and suddenly the cobblestone was rushing towards her face. Starbursts exploded in her vision as her face hit the pavement, and fresh blood exploded from her already tender nose.

The scent of blood turned her gut over, and she raised her head feebly to retch. The alcohol burned twice as bad on the way up then it did on the way down. Eponine pushed herself away from the mess so she would not lie in her own bile.

* * *

Inside the tavern, nobody had seen her fall. Enjolras had returned to reading, and Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Bahorel had begun one of their vulgar drinking songs.

Enjolras became tenser and tenser as he scribbled on the paper, the words becoming flames in his heart, fueling a fire he would use to light France ablaze. His incendiary thoughts, empowered by his knowledge, would cause the leaders of the land to burn. The streets of Paris would be alight with the oppressed, singing the song of the revolution! The song of which Enjolras had written the words! It was an amazing thought, one that plagued Enjolras constantly and pressed him to continue with his work.

Combeferre touched Enjolras's shoulder gently. "Why do we do this, Enjolras?" He asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" Enjolras questioned, startled out of his reverie. He set his pen down and looked into the eyes of his good friend.

"This," Combeferre gestured broadly to Les Amis. "The revolution."

"For a republic," Enjolras replied, almost scared by Combeferre's question. "Don't tell me you are losing faith in us now, Combeferre!"

"I have all the faith in the world in you," Combeferre reassured. "But indulge me this."

"We want to have a say in who runs our France," Enjolras said slowly. "We want to be able to speak for ourselves."

"And who will profit from that?" Combeferre pressed, tightening his grip on Enjolras's shoulder.

"My friend, you're beginning to scare me!"

"Please."

Enjolras paused, as if to gather his thoughts. "We will profit from it," He said. "The poor will profit from it, because they are suffering the most."

"When did they specifically ask for help from us?" Combeferre continued.

"Just because they do not ask for help does not mean they do not need it," Enjolras said, then it dawned on him, and he groaned. "Combeferre, why did you make me say that?"

"I didn't make you say it. You knew it, but I think you needed to hear yourself say it again," Combeferre said, and squeezed the back of Enjolras's neck. "Sometimes you can be so thick."

Combeferre walked off, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts. Enjolras knew exactly what his friend was implying, but was hesitant on acting on it.

Maybe a walk in the night would clear his mind.

**Worth continuing? Please let me know. **


	2. Ties That Bind

**Wow, I can't believe people reviewed, subscribed, and/or favorited to my story already! I feel so loved. Thank you so much, lotrfan812, TheTreesAreFullOfStarlight-EE, Camberleigh Fauconbridge and CK! I really appreciate it. **

**CK, I'm so glad that you wrote what you did; I have been striving so hard to achieve what you wrote. Your review was so helpful and honest, and let me know that my story is coming across as I want it to. It's like you read my mind on the students, too. I'm so glad somebody sees what I'm trying to write; a dark, realistic, true-to-the-Brick story, with my own twists. Please, keep leaving me reviews! I need the help. **

**I'd just like to say that while I'm portraying Enjolras as the canon angelic blond, Hadley Fraser will always be my Grantaire, even though he's a bit too pretty to be R. Not a bad thing, though. I love Ramin Karimloo as well; I think he did a great job in the O2 concert. I watched the Phantom 25****th**** Anniversary, and I was like, "Why is Enjolras trying to hang Grantaire? Wait, wrong musical." It was a funny thought, though. **

**Enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

The sound of footsteps on the pavement stirred Eponine into motion. She withdrew herself to lean against the wall just as the leader of Les Amis walked in front of her. He did not see her in the darkness. Just as well. She didn't want his pity.

How she wanted to sleep in a soft bed. She would be sore as anything in the morning, but even more so if she spent the night on the street.

"Maybe Grantaire is drunk enough," She thought. "Just for a night. I'd sleep in a real bed!" She caught herself, and cursed silently. Never again, she had promised, and she was going to stay true to it. She was done with her old profession. It had hurt her more than starvation ever could, destroyed her very soul. She would rather be hungry than abused by a different man every night. She couldn't take it anymore. Every night, she would recede into the depths of her mind to escape the physical world. But she would always remember the pain, no matter how far she distanced herself. The dark would always return to swallow her up.

When the next day came, she would look for a proper job, and never have to return to the darkness of her nights.

The tavern door opened once more, revealing Courfeyrac and Marius, returning to the apartment they shared. Marius was still speaking of Cosette.

Eponine knew that Marius would not love her, not like this. He saw her as an uneducated rogue, a criminal, and a whore. He could never love someone so far beneath him.

Rain started to fall lightly. Eponine felt a little bit of hope that maybe the rain would serve to wash away the dirt of the life she vowed to give up, and leave her with the power to get up off the ground and begin a new story. She lifted her face to the rain, letting it fall down her mangled face, feeling the slight sting as it hit open wounds. It was beautiful nonetheless. Strength and energy coursed through her.

Then, a roll of thunder was heard, and it poured. Eponine was soaked to the bone in a second, and the pleasantly cool rain turned to freezing cold. She sank to the ground once more, praying that the rain would just drown her. Eponine felt hopeless once more.

The tavern door opened yet another time, this time letting Combeferre and Grantaire into the storm. Grantaire was leaning on Combeferre, going on about how beautiful 'his Apollo' was. Eponine thought the drink was messing with her head on that one.

"Shush, Grantaire," Combeferre said, silencing the drunkard and looking around in the darkness. "Did you see where the Thenardier girl went?"

Eponine raised her head at this. "Monsieur, you'll have to look elsewhere for a good time tonight," She rasped.

Combeferre and Grantaire could barely see her, wet and muddy, huddled in shadow. Combeferre knelt in front of her, carefully avoiding the pile of vomit that was undoubtedly Eponine's.

"Mademoiselle, are you alright?" He asked gently, trying to ignore the smell of booze, blood, and sweat that assailed his senses.

"The kind monsieur does not need to bother himself with my health," Eponine murmured, ducking her head.

"You're hurt, mademoiselle," Combeferre said in response.

"I am fine. I'm tough, monsieur, I can take the cards I've been dealt. We street rats; we're a different breed. We're strong." She rambled.

"My friend can help you," Combeferre said kindly. "Here, come with me," He stretched out his hand. Eponine flinched away from it, unnerved by this stranger she had only seen from afar.

"I am fine," She repeated. "Look, I can stand on my own." She used the wall as support as she clumsily climbed to her feet, her ribs crying out in protest. "Really, monsieur, thank you for your kindness, but I am fine. Nothing I can't shake off." She staggered past the two men, but Combeferre gently blocked her passing with his arm. She jumped backwards when they came into contact.

"Please, monsieur, leave me be," Eponine nearly pleaded, her rough voice mangling the request.

"Come, Eponine," Combeferre said again, holding out his hand once more. He turned to Grantaire. "Get Joly," He said briefly, over his shoulder. Grantaire ambled into the tavern on his friend's request.

"Messieurs should not worry themselves," Eponine said quietly. She doubted their sincerity, even though they had given her no reason to mistrust them. When you grow up in a world when everyone only looks out for themselves, it makes you hard. Trust did not come easily to people like Eponine. Still, her mistrust of the Amis was placated by the fact that they had money, and therefore they had food.

The alcohol muddled her inhibitions, and her hunger won over her suspicions. She placed her calloused, grimy hand in Combeferre's. He gave her a warm smile, one she couldn't bring herself to return, and they waited, in silence, in the pouring rain, until Grantaire and Joly emerged from the tavern. Grantaire was toting another bottle of absinthe. Combeferre pretended not to notice the alcohol, and greeted Joly with a solid clap on the back.

"What is this?" Joly asked Combeferre, trying not to gag when he smelt the foul odor coming off of the wretch.

"I would like you to help the mademoiselle, Joly," Combeferre told him.

"Are you sure, Combeferre?" Joly asked reluctantly, looking at his feet. "I'm not even a doctor yet…"

"Joly, give me one reason why you would refuse helping her."

"Monsieur, I am alright. There is no need to help me," Eponine said, swaying on her feet. "Do not bother yourself. I'll just go now…" She made a move to leave, but Combeferre held her hand tight, trying to not to be bothered by how dirty his own hand was getting.

"We need to get her out of the rain," Joly said quickly, studying Eponine with a trained eye. "Whose place is the closest?"

"Enjolras," Grantaire said quickly. "He lives in a tenement just down the street." He took a swig off his bottle, and pointed down the road. "Just down there."

How he came about this information, nobody knew.

Joly frowned. "I don't know if Enjolras would appreciate us bringing the mademoiselle to his home," He said uncertainly.

"He will get over it," Combeferre said firmly. "Besides, you said she needs to get out of rain."

Joly nodded. "Let's go, Eponine," He said to the gamine.

"I am not a child, monsieur," Eponine nearly growled at him. "There is no reason to treat me as such. I grew up long before you ever had to." She pulled her hand from Combeferre's grasp, and stumbled down the road ahead of them, ignoring the pain she felt all over.

Combeferre and Joly quickly rushed to her side, just in time to prevent her from planting her face in the cobblestone.

"You are no child, mademoiselle, but we all need help every now and again," Combeferre said patiently, steadying her.

Eponine was beginning to detest his compassion. She had taken a beating before, gotten utterly smashed before, laid broken in the street before. This was nothing new; nothing she couldn't survive on her own. These presumptuous schoolboys were starting to irk her, but she let the two men lead her down the boulevard in a sheepish manner. Grantaire ambled after them.

* * *

Enjolras had returned to his home rather than the tavern after the rain began. His mind lost in thought, his feet had carried him to his apartment. One of les Amis would bring him his books and papers the next day.

He entered his home nearly soaked through. He stripped out his wet clothes and only bothered in putting on another pair of trousers. Barefoot and bare chested, he grabbed one of Descartes's books and reclined on his divan. He read, thankful for the peace and quiet his apartment afforded him. The only sound he could hear was the heavy rain pounding the roof.

* * *

The strange quartet arrived at Enjolras's tenement before long. Combeferre knocked loudly on the door.

"Enjolras!" He called. "It's Combeferre and Joly!" He rapped on the door again.

"I'm here as well!" Grantaire said.

"Don't let him know yet," Combeferre muttered. He knew of Enjolras's dislike for the man.

What a man, Grantaire. He had a good head on his shoulders, yet he spent his time drinking himself stupid. Grantaire was a right mess; dark hair unruly, face unshaven, cravat never tied properly, and constantly toting about a bottle of absinthe. Combeferre had a feeling that one of the Amis would find him passed out drunk in the streets like a common street rat when morning rolled around. It was always so. Enjolras was clearly disgusted by the man who followed him and his friends so faithfully, yet he never turned him away.

The small group, made up of students and the gamine, heard footsteps approaching the door.

"What is it?" Enjolras asked from the other side as he unlocked the bolt on his door.

"A friend needs help." Combeferre responded.

"Who is hurt? What has happened?" Enjolras demanded as he opened the door. His brilliant blue eyes turned stony as he took in Grantaire and his bottle of drink, and hardened even more when he saw the walking pile of blood and rags that was Marius's personal stalker.

"She needs help." Combeferre said. "You were the closest," He offered as an explanation, seeing Enjolras's expression. "She cannot afford a doctor."

Combeferre could've sworn that Enjolras had muttered, "Obviously."

"My friend, my friend," Combeferre said. "She is one of those we are fighting so hard for!"

"You do not fight for us," Eponine mumbled rebelliously, head still bent low.

"What?" Enjolras whirled on her, livid.

"You're all talk," She told him. "You yammer on about your precious revolution but you'll never act on it!"

"Enjolras, she is drunk!" Combeferre said quickly. "It's messing with her head!"

"It's sure messing with mine!" Grantaire crowed. Joly dug his elbow into Grantaire ribcage.

"Enjolras, just let Joly clean her wounds here, that's all we ask," Combeferre pleaded.

"Fine," Enjolras said shortly. He led the four inside, his hair still wet and no shirt on his back.

Joly had Eponine sit on the divan, and requested clean water and a few rags. When he had these things, he carefully washed the blood and dirt off of Eponine's face, holding his breath all the while. She did not move at all.

"Did you fall on your face?" He asked her awkwardly.

"Oui," She said shortly, not meeting his eyes.

"I believe you have a concussion, as well as a broken nose," The student told her uncertainly.

"I believe I already knew that," Eponine retorted.

"Mademoiselle," Enjolras began coldly. "You should thank him for his effort. He's the only help you have right now."

Joly ignored them both. "Where else does it hurt?"

"Only everywhere," Eponine replied, but with less bite. "My ribs, especially."

"Did you fall on them as well?" Joly asked.

"Ah… yes. Yes I did," Eponine told him, too embarrassed to tell the truth. Joly put a hand on her ribcage, causing Eponine to balk.

"I just want to see if one is broken," Joly reassured her. "Can you stand?" She stood. Joly removed her dirty overcoat, so that Eponine stood in only her thin chemise and tattered skirt.

All four men recoiled at the sight of her malnourished and discolored body. Enjolras, who had been standing with his arms crossed over his chest, dropped his arms in astonishment. Grantaire set his bottle down and make a sympathetic face. Combeferre raised a hand to his mouth. Joly kept his have expressionless as he examined Eponine.

She had bruises shaped like hands on her thin neck and décolletage, and a deep cut on her clavicle. Her torso was black and blue as well underneath the stained chemise. Her breast bone and ribs were all distinctly visible, and she had no bust or waist to speak of. She might have been a young woman, but she had the body of a skinny boy.

Joly placed his hands once more on her ribcage, ignoring her cringing. "One of your ribs is indeed broken," He said quietly. "You've also got some internal bleeding. You are extremely malnourished, as well. Here, let me set your nose. This will hurt a lot," He warned.

"Nothing I'm not used to," Eponine told him as he took her face in his hands. With one clean snap, he placed her nose back where it belonged. Eponine only cried out briefly and grabbed her face. "That did hurt," She said.

Enjolras took this all in quietly. He pitied the poor wretch, and started to see what Combeferre had meant in the tavern. The young Thenardier really had needed help.

"Can you fix her ribs?" He asked Joly.

"No; only rest and proper nutrition can heal her. I can wrap her ribs, though, and that will prevent it from healing improperly," Joly replied. He set to tearing up the clean rags that Enjolras had found for him. "These should work fine," He said, holding up the long strips once he finished. He then looked to Eponine and took a deep breath.

"Eponine, remove your shirt," He said calmly. Combeferre snorted, and Grantaire choked on his booze. Joly fixed them with a hard look, and the two turned around to preserve Eponine's modesty.

Eponine had no such qualms, and pulled her chemise over her head, wincing as pain shot through her ribs.

Enjolras did not turn away, but rather let himself see the horror that was poverty. He had no sexual curiosities, but wanted to see for himself what the poor looked like. Eponine was hideous. She looked more like an animal than a girl, a caged and cornered and starved animal that was forced to perform in something akin to a circus. Her greasy, dirty, dull long hair fell to her waist in tangles. She looked to be all bones, with skin pulled taunt over them like a drumhead. The ridges of her spine and the outline of ribs were so apparent that it was nearly sickening. Her hip bones jutted out beneath her skirt. She had the breasts of a nine year old girl, but the sunken, pained eyes of an ancient.

Once upon a time, Eponine might have turned out pretty. But years of not enough food and bad hygiene had turned her into a wretch who had to sell herself for food. Her brown eyes were lifeless, as if she had died already, and something else was animating her body. Her lips were cracked and dry. Her teeth, while straight, hadn't seen a proper cleaning in years. More than a few months had passed since her last bath, and her clothes were old before she began to wear them.

Joly shuddered at her physique. He thought she looked like one of the cadavers he had worked on. He told her to inhale and hold her breath while he bound her ribcage. Combeferre and Grantaire still faced the wall. The room was deathly silent.

"All set," Joly said finally, as he helped Eponine pull her shirt over her bandages.

"Thank you," She told him. "I've never been cared for by a doctor before, no matter how bad I've been hurt." Her broken mind showed through when she opened her mouth. Years of being nobody had made her ache for attention. "My papa said we never had the money, but I knew better. He just never cared enough."

The men shifted uncomfortably as she spoke. Her obvious pain filled them with guilt. Eponine noted this.

"Thank you all," She said again. "I appreciate it. I'll just be going now." She limped to the door. None of the men could find the courage to go after her. What could they say to her? What could they offer to her? And so she walked out into the stormy night once more.


	3. Shelter From the Storm

**Hi, Archer here! Thanks to everyone again for the reviews and all. I can't say how much I appreciate it!**

**Thanks again to CK for the review; I'm so glad somebody is appreciating that I'm trying to stay as close to the book as possible. I'm so grateful for any criticisms anyone can give me, because it only makes me better. And thanks for pointing out my grammatical errors. They are horrid, and I'm so very, very sorry. I'm usually a real grammer-nazi. Again, I'm sorry and I feel like a real idiot for leaving them. Now watch me make some more. Blame my English teacher. She tried to convince us that Shakespeare was born thousands of years ago. Exact words. **

**And thank you as well, Willofthewisp, I hope my story continues to impress you!**

**I live on reviews, and I really appreciate whoever leaves them or just subscribes or favorites. Enjoy!**

"I don't know what to say."

Combeferre spoke first after Eponine left.

"Neither do I." Joly said.

"I'm sorry." Was all that Enjolras said.

Silence reigned again. Rain still pounded on the rooftops, and a desperation for words that couldn't be spoken filled the atmosphere.

"Will she be okay?" Grantaire asked hesitantly.

"If she lives the night, she'll heal, but I worry, with the alcohol in her blood and her concussion. She might also fall ill in this storm," Joly said grimly.

Silence again. Should they go after the poor waif, the tortured creature they cared for then turned away? Would she resent them for it? Would she thank them for it?

"Let's go find her, then," Combeferre said, and the men raced out into the rain, Enjolras slowing only to pull a waistcoat over his bare chest.

"Eponine!" They called. The rain muffled their voices and footfalls. "Mademoiselle Thenardier!" They shouted to no avail; the girl did not appear.

"How far could a wounded drunk girl have gone in the rain?" Joly yelled to the others.

"I don't know," Combeferre shouted back. "Not far, I hope…"

"Grantaire's made it out of Paris before, "Joly reminded him. "With only a half hour's head start on us. So let's find her before she wanders too far."

"I have?" Grantaire asked. "…Really?"

"If you'd stop drinking, maybe you'd remember your adventures a bit better," Enjolras said sharply. "You're destroying yourself."

Grantaire grinned, and sipped from his bottle once more, in a mocking fashion.

Enjolras ignored the man. "Eponine!" he called, walking away from the three other men. They continued north, while he walked south.

A whimper distracted him from his search. He looked around to see what had made the noise, and saw the gamine sitting in the doorway of a closed shop.

"Mademoiselle," he said, putting out his hand. "Come with me."

"No, monsieur. That is not my life anymore. Go somewhere else for your bedfellow," Eponine said, then looked up to see Enjolras. She pulled herself up, grasping her ribs and squinting to see the man better.

"Oh, it is you, you beautiful man! Even in the rain I recognize you. How could I not? Your friends call you a god; it is obvious why. You, with your golden hair and eyes like the sky. You are their sun, did you not know? But we on the streets have never seen the sun. The moon is our only companion. Light can't reach us down here, don't you see? We can never fight with you if we do not know who you are." She paused. "I do not know who you are! I imagine that you don't know who I am, either. Nobody knows who I am."

"I am Enjolras," the blond responded. "And you are drunk." He grabbed her wrist and tugged her into the street. "I found her," he called down to Joly, Combeferre, and Grantaire.

"Not so loud, monsieur, I cannot hold my liquor as well as your pet drunkard," Eponine said, swaying on her feet and leaning against Enjolras.

"He is not my pet," Enjolras muttered, trying to hurry the girl to his friends and keep her on her feet.

"Monsieur, you are good and kind. But why are you helping me? I am the lowest of the low, and there are others who need help as well," Eponine said.

"The revolution will bring your people from the streets," Enjolras answered, steadying her as she swaggered. "But right now, I think it's important to get _you_ out of the rain."

They reached the other men, and scuttled back to Enjolras's apartment. Once inside, Enjolras sat Eponine on the divan and turned to his friends.

"It's nearly morning," he said. "Go home. Get some sleep. Eponine will stay here until she feels like leaving."

"Are you sure, Enjolras?" Joly asked, pushing his hand nervously through his wet hair. "Oh, we'll all catch cold for sure…"

"Ah, it was just a little rain!" Grantaire exclaimed, shaking his head like a dog, sending water droplets everywhere. "Good for the spirit!"

"You need to lay off the spirits," Combeferre told him.

Enjolras shook his head. "Never mind that," he said, and then a thought struck him. "Who has my papers and books?"

"Bossuet has them, no worries," Combeferre said dismissively. "We would never just leave things like that lying about. There's enough in your stacks of writings to put us all under the blade."

"If an officer of the law should get their hands on any of our works, we'd be thrown in jail for treason faster than you could sneeze," Joly said.

"That will never happen!" Enjolras said fervently. "Do not fear things like that! We can outwit the law easily. Those who we cannot put off, we can bribe. If we do end up in jail, we have law students in our midst who will see us out. There is nothing to fear. Nothing to worry for. Our Revolution will be glorious!"

Grantaire looked up from his bottle to Enjolras. "How can you be so sure? What can go wrong along the way, Enjolras?" He paused and hiccupped. "What if there is fighting? What then?"

"The people of Paris will fight alongside us for their freedom," Enjolras replied firmly, his blue eyes steady.

"Says who? You're the man with the words; you like to speak. But those you talk to have already heard your song and seen your dance! There is nobody outside of our friends who know of your revolution. We are a band of students. We are but few. We listen to you, but will _her_ people hear you?" Grantaire gestured to Eponine.

"I will make them hear," The blonde replied softly.

Joly shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "If that is all, then…"

Enjolras caught the cue, and opened the door for his friends and Grantaire. "I'll see you all after classes at the Musain."

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

"Goodnight, Combeferre."

"Goodnight, Enjolras."

"Goodnight, Joly."

"Goodnight, Apollo."

"What?"

"Goodnight, Enjolras!"

With that, Enjolras softly pulled the door shut before turning to face Eponine. She looked to be half asleep on the divan, slumped against the armrest.

"You heard what I said," he said, somewhat shortly. "You may leave whenever you feel well enough. Joly said to give it a few days, though."

Eponine regarded him with wary eyes. Brown, Enjolras noted. Lighter than the chestnut hair on her head, but darker than her soot- and dust- darkened skin. They looked like the bottom of a well, seemingly endless and indescribably empty.

Exhausted of words, she simply nodded.

"There are a basin and a comb in the room through that door if you wish to wash a bit," Enjolras continued awkwardly. He had never had a woman in his house before. Eponine could hardly be called a woman, but she was of the female sex nonetheless.

She wordlessly stood and exited through the door he mentioned. Enjolras set about getting a loaf of bread, cheese, and light wine from his pantry in order to fix himself and his guest something to eat before they slept.

Eponine emerged from the other room. Her hair was untangled, but still dirty. Her face was clean, though, and the assortment of bruises stood out vividly. Her lip had begun to bleed again, but Enjolras said nothing.

"Eat," he offered, bringing the plate to her as she sat back on the divan.

"Such fine food," Eponine muttered, looking greedily at the plateful. "I haven't eaten this well in a long time." She cast a sideways glance at Enjolras. "Monsieur is too kind," she said before digging in. She scarfed down the bread and cheese and gulped the wine quickly.

"Hungry," Enjolras commented, trying to make small talk. Eponine looked up darkly.

"No, monsieur. I eat three squares a day and only spend my nights working corners for shits and giggles," she told him dryly from behind the wineglass. "Pardon my language," she said even more sardonically.

"Forgive me," Enjolras mumbled, ducking his head as a blush crossed his fair face. "I didn't…"

"I forgive you. I cannot stay mad at someone who is generous enough to feed me and shelter me," She smiled a lopsided, feral grin. "Not many else would think of being so considerate. I do not deserve this."

Enjolras coughed. "Well," he said. "The sun will rise in a few hours. You need to sleep."

"Sleep," Eponine laughed. "Should I let myself go willingly back into the dark? I fear I shall not return, if I leave once again." She laughed again, and the sound was mad.

"Yes, now I'm sure you need to sleep." Enjolras took her empty plate away to allow her to settle her thin frame on the divan. "Here, I'll get you a blanket," he told her, moving gracelessly towards the cupboard, conscious of her eyes on him, dark and mistrustful.

Like she had anything to fear from him. Enjolras would never touch anything like her. He shook his head. No. She was one of those he wanted to fight for. Her position wasn't anything unheard of, nor was it to be looked upon with disgust. It simply wasn't her fault.

He returned to her with the blanket and cast it over her malnourished form. Her head lolled against the side of the divan; she was asleep already.

**I live for reviews!**


	4. Fork in the Road

**Thanks to Hello I'm Here, the-sarcastic-cynic, and Soleil la bijoutiere! I feel loved. **

**Hello I'm Here- I feel your pain. But I also feel a healthy fear of you, now… **

**TheTreesAreFullOfStarlight-EE- I try! Thanks for the review, I can't say how much it means to me.**

**The-sarcastic-cynic- I'm so glad you like it! **

**CK- Thanks for the input; once again your advice is invaluable! I'm happy that you appreciate the bit about the papers left behind. I made Lesgles get it on purpose; it always seemed to me like he was the one to clean up after his friends, as was shown by him calling Marius's name in class when Marius was absent. I don't know; that's just what I got from that. I think you're right about Enjolras being more calculating then I've written him. Maybe he was tired… Kidding, I know I have to work on how I write him. He's easily the most complex character I've written, and I definitely have to shift my writing style to write this. Just took a look at the parts you mentioned… Wow, that was not in character at all. You are improving my writing so much by just reviewing. I can never repay you for how much help you are!**

**And a word to everybody else on E/R; I'm not a **_**huge **_**fan. I'm more liable to lean towards Enjolras/ Combeferre, if any slash pairings at all. Actually, I don't even like Enjolras/ Eponine. My story shouldn't even be labeled 'romance', but it's more than friendship. Just plain 'love' would have been more accurate. And E/E isn't truly a pairing; they're just the principal characters. To an extent. **

**I have no idea how Paris is laid out and whatnot, so I just picked a street name in Paris for Feuilly's shop. If you have a better idea for it, let me know. I'm also aware that the poem Eponine "reads" is not grammatically correct, but I intended it that way. **

**Okay, I have a question for those reading this: Based on my writing, how old would you put me at? I'm just wondering. Message me or leave it in a review.**

**Can I get three cheers from anybody else who has tried to start a revolution? Hip hip…! **

* * *

Enjolras woke when the sun rose, even though that had only allowed him about four hours of sleep. He had never needed to sleep much, nor did he ever have the time. Between the work he needed to do for his classes and the writing he did for his Revolution, he was used to very little sleep.

Mechanically, he pulled on a pair of trousers and grabbed a wooden pail, heading for Eponine. He knelt beside her on the divan.

She was still asleep, but she tossed and turned like a woman possessed. She cried out in the throes of her nightmare. Was this the darkness she had spoken of? Could she not even escape her living hell in her subconscious? Even sleep was a little slice of death for her.

Enjolras gently shook her shoulder.

"No…" She mumbled. "Leave me- no…" Her struggling increased and her sleep speech rose in volume. "Leave me! No! NO!" She sat straight up, clutching the blanket around her. She took one look at Enjolras and his pail, and instantly grabbed the bucket and began retching.

Enjolras calmly held the bucket in one hand and gathered her hair away from her face with the other. He had found himself administering the same care to any one of the Amis who had woken up in the tavern with a hangover many times before. They would all drink themselves to sleep in the tavern, and Enjolras would be the only one sober enough to attend to them in the morning. Grantaire he left alone, but Courfeyrac or Bahorel could usually count on his care in the aftermath of a rowdy night. This was nothing new to him.

He was sure that somewhere Paris, Grantaire was experiencing the same kind of rude awakening. The man woke up every morning the same way; with the hangover from hell and nearly no recollection of the night before. Enjolras rolled his eyes at just the thought of Grantaire. Grantaire followed Enjolras around like he cared to listen to his speeches and ideals, but was only cynical and drunk. All the time.

Eponine coughed, throwing up the last of her stomach contents. She moaned, covering her face with her hands. "My head." She looked up at Enjolras. "So very sorry, monsieur. So sorry." Her head felt like it weighed eighty pounds, and her tongue was thick and cottony in her mouth. Her breath tasted foul as it passed her cracked lips. Her stomach flipped again, but there was nothing left for it to diverge.

"There is nothing to apologize for," he replied, looking down at the hung over girl. "Many a time I have done the same for my other friends." He didn't say that his other friends were usually cleaner and less bruised. And considerably more male.

The gamine's black eye stood out darkly against the tan of her face, and the cut on her lip had scabbed over in a clump of dried blood. Maybe she did bear a slight resemblance to Grantaire after one of his boxing matches.

Eponine sat back on the divan, her mind reeling. Her dream, dark and terrifying, had instilled in her this instinct to run. She had felt hands, a hundred of them, roaming her body, pulling her hair. They caressed and bruised her in turn, then tore her skin from her chest. Rope and knives scored her arms. A noose fell around her neck, tightening as she was pulled in every direction. She had called out for those hands to go away, but they didn't hear.

A pretty necklace for the pretty whore, harsh voices had whispered in her ears.

She did not want to look at Enjolras. She wanted to be away from him, out of his sight, out of everybody's sight. Their eyes drove her mad. They were always looking, but they never truly saw. They never saw beneath it all; the bruises beneath her clothes, the scars beneath her skin, and the darkness behind her eyes.

But Eponine knew there was good in the world. Marius, Marius, who would never be hers. He was the first to speak to her and befriend her. He was her first friend and her first love. When she thought of him, everything seemed okay.

Enjolras was handsome as well, but more… cold, more stoic than Marius was, or any of les Amis for that matter. He was more intimidating than anything else, but he had a good heart, as anybody who knew him could say.

"Did you sleep well?" Enjolras asked, standing and putting the bucket outside the door for his landlady to take away.

"Yes, monsieur," Eponine lied, rubbing her hands on her forearms, expecting to see torn and bloody skin there. "Like a babe. And yourself?"

"Fine, fine," he responded. An awkward silence settled over them. "Are you hungry?" He asked, and mentally slapped himself. Of course she was hungry. "Will you stay here while I get breakfast for us?"

"I do not want to keep you, monsieur, but I would really like that. You are too nice to me," Eponine told him. She fished around in the pocket of her trench coat and pulled out three sous. "Not many people are that kind. They see me, they say: There goes the little Thenardier! Crooked like her father! But no, not you. You let me sleep in your home and you feed me your own food. Here, take this." She held out the coins.

Enjolras declined the money, shaking his head. "I have more than enough money, Eponine. Keep it."

She quietly returned the coins to her pocket, not arguing any further. A part of her had been hoping he'd say that. She had no other money, and if he was offering to buy her food, she would let him. Some semblance of morality had compelled her to offer, though.

Enjolras had seen it. He noticed the conflict on her face, and admired her for her proposal. Anybody else off the streets would have just allowed him to purchase the food with his own money. At least, he thought they would. He dressed quickly, tying his cravat in a messy knot before pulling on a dry waistcoat. "You'll be fine alone, right?" He asked on his way to the door.

"Yes, monsieur, I'll be fine. Alone is how I prefer to be, anyways. Just me, myself, and I…" She trailed off, adopting a far-away look. She shook her head. "I'll be here when you get back. I haven't the will to run away now, not since you've fed me and given me a place to sleep. That would be stupid. I am a lot of things, but let it be said that I am not stupid."

Enjolras just nodded to the girl, and walked briskly out his door.

Eponine sat on the divan for a few minutes after he left, thinking deeply. She rolled her shoulders, popping her neck, and tried to stand. All the blood rushed to her head, dizzying her, and she sat down quickly. She tried again, slower this time, and accomplished standing. It was no small effort.

She ran her hands up her sides, feeling the linen strips that bound her ribs. She vaguely remembered hearing that one was broken. Her eyes widened as she evoked the memory of that discovery. One of Enjolras's friends had removed her shirt in front of the three other men! Joly, he had been called. Her expression hardened. Good. They saw finally saw what drove her to her fate. She was nothing pretty, but hopefully it was a wake-up call to them, that not every choice made on the streets in the face of hunger was voluntary. Now, maybe they could see what they were up against.

She rubbed her nose, recalling the smart snap she had received at the hands of Enjolras's doctor friend. _Student¸_ she thought. Her nose was straight, but tender still. She stretched her arms, and then walked about the living room she had slept in.

It was extremely Spartan; the divan, a table, four wooden chairs, and a bookshelf were the only furniture. Enjolras had no paintings on his walls, no portraits of loved ones on his table, nor any knickknacks on the bookshelf.

The bookshelf was stuffed with books, sporting some names she recognized and many, many more she didn't. She knew of Robespierre, Danton, and Desmoulins, but not Brune, Églantine, nor Chénier. She pulled the Chénier book from the shelf curiously, and cracked it open to a random page.

"Ami-" She stumbled over the words. "Chez… nos Français… ma muse… vo- voudrait plaire; Mais… j'ai fui la…satire à leurs regards si chère. ''She read aloud hesitantly, tripping as she encountered words her tongue could not form. _Friend, my muse among our French would please, but Iran away from satire to their eyes so dear." _It was a book of poetry.

She continued reading cautiously. "The great reader… always pl- pleased with him, and still more pl-pleased if he can laugh at others…" The words made no sense to her untrained mind, but she found them pretty nonetheless. She scanned down the page, to another part of the poem. "The unfortunate enough already seems to be pitied, to have, even before him, saw his glory die, and his book at the tomb show him the way, without going under the earth too fertile bosom, spreading its fame and its sad wonders. Make all the reeds sing what ears on his head drew up their tops and their weight…" No, the poem made no sense to her, but she let her tongue rape the words, purely for the sake of trying. No one could ever accuse her of not trying.

Her headache prevented her from reading any further, so she replaced the book carefully on the shelf. Besides books written by revolutionaries, Enjolras also had a considerably large collection of history books about all European countries, but mostly all were on France. He also had Greek mythologies and epics, including a copy of the Iliad and the Odyssey. He even had a book on the American Revolutionary War.

She jumped when the door opened suddenly, and flattened herself against the bookshelf.

"Eponine?" Oh. It was only Enjolras. Eponine peeled herself from the wall and went to the door, one hand on her ribcage.

"Oui?" She called back. "I'm here." Enjolras entered with his hands full of food wrapped in a handkerchief.

She smelled a delicious aroma coming off of the parcels, and her mouth began to water slightly. Enjolras opened the kerchief, revealing six pastries, still hot.

"Here," he said, taking two for himself and offering the rest to her. Eponine nearly leaped at them, but restrained herself.

They were filled with fresh apple, the expensive kind. Eponine wolfed them down like a wild animal. If she had thought that the bread and cheese from last night was fine…

"Thank you," she muttered through a mouthful of apple pastry. "Though I do have to warn you, this will probably make me sick. I have never eaten such fine fare."

"You'll survive," Enjolras told her, eating his own breakfast with neat bites.

Eponine grinned crookedly. "I'm good at that," she said. "Surviving. I've lived through famine and disease, endured crime and persisted through my father's schemes. If there's anything I'm good at, it's surviving." She stuffed a hunk of pastry into her mouth.

Enjolras started. "Your father?" He asked, remembering the conversation at the tavern the night before.

"My family's story is long and dark, and, more importantly, not your business," Eponine said, ice lacing her voice. Her eyes turned cold.

"My apologies." Her sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made the glare look particularly terrifying. Enjolras decided that it was in his best interests no to pursue the subject.

"No worries." Eponine stuffed the rest of the last pastry into her mouth. "These were delicious, monsieur. Thank you." She brushed the crumbs from her lips and watched Enjolras stand.

"I have classes soon," he said uneasily. "So…"

"I'll leave," Eponine stood as well, hand returning to her ribs. "Thank you monsieur, you are much too kind," she told him, dropping her head. Enjolras could see the lice on her scalp. He thought of her sleeping on the divan, and made a mental note to have the cover washed as soon as possible.

"Good bye, mademoiselle. Stay safe," he told her as she headed out the door.

"I'll try, monsieur, but I will make no promises," she smiled sadly. "After all, who knows what today will bring? It could be a pretty sunny day, or it could storm once more. But it's all the same, because at the end of the day, if you're alive, you're one of the lucky ones." She paused. "Will you and your friends be meeting tonight at the Café Musain?"

"Yes," Enjolras said hesitantly. Why? He wanted to ask, but he did not.

"Thank you," Eponine said, walking out. Enjolras headed out behind her, and they parted ways in the street. Two different directions. Two different fates.

Where the two roads would lead was undefined; there was no street map to destiny. Even though the boulevard stretched far in front of her, Eponine felt like she was at a dead end. The path she walked had always been shrouded in shadow and misery, but now, sunshine fell on the lane ahead. It had no words.

Who said she had to live like she had been living? Who gave her oppressors the right to oppress? Enjolras had said that her people would rise up and overthrow the tyrant, and they would have freedom.

Freedom! That was that word. That was the light ahead. But it would be hard, Eponine realized. Les Amis de l'ABC wanted freedom as well, but they were going about it in a very roundabout fashion. Maybe… No. It was too ridiculous for Eponine to even think that the students would listen to her opinion in anything, for any reason.

They had no respect for her. She had their pity and their sympathy, but that was all. The students all had such high standards without intending to be so judgmental. They would have to put their ears to the ground to hear her, and she knew that they were too prideful to do so. She would have to show them that she was just as good as they were. Then, maybe, they would listen.

Eponine walked and thought until she came to the wig shop. It had its perfectly coiffed and colored displays in the window, adorned with ribbons and fabric flowers. It was a shop for the nobles, no doubt about it.

She stopped to stare at the wigs. Some were piled high in elegant up-dos, others had long, loose curls. Some were powdered white; others were naturally brown or black. A few had been bleached blonde. There was one brilliant red wig. Eponine touched her own hair, jealous of the pretty locks in the window. Her hair was not clean, but it was long enough…

She entered the shop cautiously, and caught a glimpse of an old woman bundling and tying up clumps of hair at a desk.

"'Ello, dearie," The woman looked up and grinned, revealing an extensive lack of teeth. "What can I do you for?" She asked, making no comment on Eponine's discolored face.

Eponine twisted her hair in her fingers. "How much would you pay for this?" She removed her cap. "It's not very pretty, but I'm sure it would be workable, madame!"

The woman set down the blonde locks she had been grouping, and walked towards Eponine. One leg dragged, hidden by her skirts. She wrapped a strand of Eponine's hair around a long, thin finger.

"No, no, this will not do," She muttered, sounding disappointed.

"Madame! Please! Look how long it is; what kind of designs you could make?" Eponine pleaded. "Madame-"

"Be quiet!" The woman snapped. "I never said I wouldn't take it!" She pulled down Eponine's head to look at her scalp. "You've got lice, dearie. Your hair needs to be washed. Come." The woman grabbed Eponine's arm and nearly dragged her to a back room, where there was an assortment of brushes, combs, scissors, soaps, and oils all laid out on a table beside a basin of water.

"Sit down now," The woman said shortly, forcing Eponine into a chair before the table. Eponine felt a shock and flinched as cold water touched her hair. "Get over it." She heard the wigmaker mutter as a perfumed oil was massaged roughly into her hair. The woman scrubbed at her mercilessly, but it was not truly painful. Eponine had no doubt that the water was nearly black from the dirt. She didn't care. She was so happy just to feel her hair being clean once more.

It reminded her of her childhood, a time when her parents had money and she was spoiled. Eponine and her sister had been clean every day. Lice and fleas had never been a problem. Then her father fell into debt, and they had to leave their inn and come to Paris. The money never returned, and the Thenardiers became poorer and poorer. Eponine fell deeper and deeper into the filth of sin with each passing day. It had truly been too long since she had been clean.

The wigmaker finished washing Eponine's hair and dried it roughly with a rag. She took a comb to it, jerking it downwards to untangle the snarls that menaced the girl's head. Eponine closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, but felt better when the woman's deft hands began to braid her hair from the crown of her head.

Eponine reached around and touched her wet, braided hair. It felt so smooth and soft. She swung her head about, feeling the swish in the air. She giggled at the strange sensation.

Then she felt the cool touch of a blade against the back of her neck, causing her to stiffen and suck in her breath.

She heard the snip of scissors, and the weight on her head lightened considerably. She whirled around to see the old woman holding her severed braid in one hand and wearing a grin on her face. She hefted the braid, examining the hair.

"Four francs," The woman offered, setting the braid down onto her desk and fetching a purse.

"I'll take it," Eponine held out her hand. The honest money in her palm made up for the sadness of losing her hair.

On her way out of the wig shop, she stole a glance in a mirror. Her hair brushed just past her jawbone. Raising up her hand, she ruffled the uneven edges with her mouth wide open.

"I look like a boy," She gasped.

"Dearie, you're far too skinny to be a boy," The old woman cackled from her corner. "You've got the bruises, though!"

Eponine hurried out of the shop, clutching her money. It wasn't very much, but it would keep her fed for a while if she used it wisely. For a short time, she wouldn't have to endure the attentions of strange men to get enough money to eat. For now, she was safe.

* * *

**Sorry for the crappy ending and the novel of an author's note. I make no excuses, but I'll do better next time. Please review! **


	5. Images

**So… Awkward moment. I (badly) quoted Andre Chenier in my last chapter, then I re-read the part in the Brick about Jean Prouvaire, and Chenier is mentioned as being mourned by Jehan. That was so totally unintentional, I can't even say. Fail. **

**The-sarcastic-cynic- Now I know how I'm going to spend my next winter! Thanks! **

**CK- I'll be sure to look for that book! As I've said before, I love that you take notice of every little thing I try to do, and see its deeper meaning. It's really a confidence booster. I'm glad you like the hair; I was really worried about how that would go over. As for the Fantine parallel, it's definitely there! After cutting her hair, Fantine slowly fell lower and lower, and ultimately turned to prostitution. Eponine has already sold herself, and has nothing left of her virtue to lose. I'm trying to show her as coming back to the surface rather than sinking as Fantine did. And as much as I love the girl-disguises-as-boy storylines (Song of the Lioness, anyone?... No?), I really don't think I could pull that off, considering they know her already, and despite her wretchedness, she acts decidedly female. Especially around Marius. Once again, I apologize for the ending. And I love an artful Enjolras/ Grantaire, but I'm picky, too. I cannot stand Eponine/ Marius. **

**This story is definitely about redemption, with only a little bit of romance (but it's there), which is why I portrayed Eponine as Hugo did, because if she was perfect already, the story would be no fun. It also feels like blasphemy to write an Eppie-bopper, at least in my eyes. **

* * *

Hidden in the doorway of a shop, the streetwalker surveyed her prospects. She looked out over the boulevard, examining the men who walked by. The food in her stomach was not food earned by honest means, but one had to do what had to be done to stay alive. Morality was not something much considered by this woman of the town. She had turned to attracting men for their coins when her apartment's rent had increased nearly by half. Men now were her sole benefactors and menaces. She feared and relied on the men with loose morals. She was average, normal; just your typical prostitute out luring in customers. One man in particular caught her attention.

He was tall with good shoulders and a narrow waist; healthy and spry. His blonde hair was tied back in a black ribbon, revealing a pale face faceted by high cheekbones and serious blue eyes. The angelic beauty was intensified by the severity of the gaze held on his face. Eyes straight ahead, lips pressed together in what was not quite a frown, walking swiftly with a purpose.

"Oh, monsieur," The prostitute called out, her voice throaty and low.

Enjolras turned to look at the wretch in the doorway. The woman had blackened teeth and matted hair, and had pulled her skirts up to show her legs. Her breasts spilled out of her tightly laced corset. The blonde looked away quickly and kept walking.

"Oh, monsieur!" The broad called out again. Enjolras stopped and turned slowly to look at her.

For some reason, he could only see Eponine. He saw the little gamine's face on this other woman's body, the same gaunt features and malnourished frame. The women were different indeed, but their pain was surely the same. He had seen firsthand the terrors Eponine had been subjected to, and pity wrenched his heart.

He approached the woman, forcing himself to see past the leer on her face and the twist of her mouth.

"Madame," he said quietly.

"Morning, monsieur, how would you like some company on this fine day?" The woman asked suggestively, raising her eyebrows and leaning towards Enjolras. The man took a step back.

"Madame," he said again. "Please stop this."

"What? Now, listen. Don't get to thinking that you can-" The doxy's grin faltered as Enjolras grabbed her hand and placed twenty francs in it.

"Get yourself off the street." He withdrew his hand as quickly as he could. A beat of silence followed.

"Monsieur…" The woman said, eyes huge. The sultry look on her face had been replaced by something childish and almost innocent. She released her skirts so that the hem touched the ground once more. "Surely you cannot mean this…"

"I am perfectly serious."

The woman gasped slightly. "This is enough to feed my children for a week," she revealed, breathless. "Never has somebody done this for me…"

Enjolras nodded gravely. "Take yourself off of the street," he repeated. "If you apply yourself, you can find good work."

"I'm so sorry, monsieur," the woman told him. "This has just been the easiest way…"

"Silence," Enjolras said, eyes flashing. "That is the thing. People believe that all in poverty look for the easiest path to travel, and that it corrupts them. Prove them wrong."

"I'm sorry," the prostitute said again, eyes downcast.

"No, you're not," Enjolras retorted harshly. "So do not apologize. Rather, promise to try harder."

"I promise," the woman said sincerely.

"You've got children," Enjolras said sharply. "Do this for them." He turned on his heel and strode away. He did not see the woman fall to her knees with the money in her hands, a look of complete amazement on her face.

He realized that this small amount of money would not keep her from selling herself, and that finding a job was not as easy as he had implied. In his eyes, he had at least tried. No one could ever accuse him of not trying.

The brief encounter, short as it was, replayed again in his mind as he walked. What had possessed him to do that?

* * *

When he finally arrived to the stairs of the college, he was pleasantly surprised to see Lesgles sitting there.

"Enjolras," The bald man called, jumping nimbly to his feet and trotting down the steps. He had a carpet-bag full of assorted papers and books in his hand.

"Bossuet," Enjolras replied. "I thought you had been kicked out…?"

"Ah, yes. But just that class. And, I thought you would want these in your possession as soon as possible," Bossuet replied, handing him the bag. Enjolras peeked inside, viewing the papers he had left at the tavern the night before. He recalled Combeferre saying Bossuet had grabbed them for him.

"Thank you, my friend," Enjolras said, smiling warmly. That was Bossuet, always looking out for him and the rest of their friends. If the world had more people like Lesgles de Meaux, it would be a far better place. Isn't that an ideal? A world where everybody looks out for each other? It was unattainable, but it was a pretty thought nonetheless. "Will you be meeting with us at the café tonight?"

Bossuet rolled his eyes. "Do you even have to ask? Of course. Now, let's go, we are late as it is!" Together, the students rushed up the steps and into the college.

* * *

A good seven hours later, Enjolras and Bossuet emerged after their classes had ended. They were literally dragging Courfeyrac by his arms out of the college.

"Let me at the bastard!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, struggling against Enjolras and Bossuet as the two men forced him backwards down the stairs.

"Shut the hell up," Bossuet muttered in his ear through gritted teeth. "Now is neither the time nor the place."

"How dare he! How dare he speak like that! How can he say that those in poverty are destined to be stupid and immoral?"

"That's not what he said and you know it," Enjolras reminded Courfeyrac, pulling him down the steps.

"He might as well have said it! He said that ignorance and debauchery were passed down by the poor like a genetic disease! He stated that those born into poverty could not be brought from the gutters, and that no one should try, for surely they are meant to be there! By right or lack thereof, he tried to tell me that the poor deserve their place in society, simply because they do not have the intelligence nor the inclination to do so!"

"Courfeyrac, you are not making any sense! Calm yourself!" Bossuet shook him as he was hauled away from the place of learning. "What are you going on about?"

"He and Eugene Merle got into an ….incendiary discussion," Enjolras said dryly. "Courfeyrac said that men should work to get the less fortunate off the streets, and Merle replied that they belonged there. Merle then basically said that the poor were too stupid to do much else than live meaningless lives and die."

"He said that?" Bossuet questioned.

"Not quite, but that was the underlying message. Of course, Courfeyrac argued and argued and argued, all very peacefully, then Merle said something about women."

"Ah, and what a _something_ he said!" Enjolras flinched as his words ignited Courfeyrac once more. "He called women sheep that had no use for education!"

"Don't tell Combeferre that part," Enjolras hissed to Bossuet. Courfeyrac continued, livid.

"He said that you could take a proper woman and give her learning, and she would go about life still a happy airhead. He said that you could take a slut from the streets, teach her to read, and she'd still sell herself the next day! Can you believe the audacity? How dare he say such a thing about women?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Do not waste your breath on this moron," Enjolras advised.

"He has no respect! Women are meant to be worshipped and protected, not denigrated by the likes of Merle. Who is he to say that women cannot respect an education? Humans are imperfect, but that doesn't mean that they will not use anything they can to ameliorate themselves. It is in our nature to utilize everything we have available to us to improve ourselves," Courfeyrac said. "No matter what class you are, there is still that drive to become better. Women, men, and children alike all experience it. Perfection is never attainable, but some never have the chance to try for this. This inability should not be held against those who have it."

"How did we get on to this topic?" Bossuet nearly groaned. "We begin talking about the poor, then about women, and finally, you wax philosophical on human nature. Courfeyrac, what will we do with you?" He rolled his eyes. "What class were you in that even brought your argument about?"

"If you must know, we were in a mathematics class."

"Only you, Courfeyrac."

* * *

When dusk came about, Eponine found herself wandering the streets, content. She was not unhappy. She did not have the love of Monsieur Marius, nor the pretty things his Cosette owned, but she was not hungry, and that felt good. The kind Monsieur Enjolras had given her food for free, and then she had bought herself bread with the money she had received from selling her hair. The honest methods made her stomach fuller than any meal bought by whoring. She felt almost whole, even while her ribs were on the mend and her hair was shorn.

She skipped a bit as she walked, wincing slightly, but continued her merry trot down the street. A tune came to her head, and she sang along softly under her breath. Her voice had been ravaged by alcohol, but still she kept singing, like a smashed music box that refused to stop playing.

Her uneven gallop was cut short by a sudden thought. Eponine looked around; she was at the front door of the Café Musain. Peering inside, she could see that it was empty. Still singing, she pushed her way through the door.

It was not silent at all, as she had expected. Voices drifted faintly to her from behind a wall. Eponine headed to the back of the café, where there was a single closed door.

As quietly as she could, she slowly opened the heavy wooden door. She slunk inside the back room of the Café Musain; trying to avoid calling attention to herself as les Amis de l'ABC conducted their meeting. Thankfully, Courfeyrac was heatedly describing an earlier encounter with a student earlier that day, and all eyes were on him. Eponine sat at the empty table in the corner of the room and let the shadow shield her. She took a look at the men gathered in the back room of the café.

Bahorel reclined on a chair with his feet propped up on a table, his boots dangerously close to Grantaire's bottle of absinthe. The idler listened intently to Courfeyrac, scratching his short beard as he heard more and more.

Grantaire slouched to the right of Bahorel, carefully watching his drink while keeping one ear on Courfeyrac. He was listening for a point to argue, a point that he could make that would allow him not to get attached to the revolutionary ideas his friend spouted. As long as there was a reason to disprove the theories of Les Amis, he would never be pressured to commit. He did not like to think of what would happen if he committed himself. When Grantaire permitted himself to get too attached, things tended to fall apart fast.

Feuilly sat across the room, his nimble fingers absentmindedly playing with one of his fans as he stared eagerly at Courfeyrac, eating every word he said. His clothes, the garments of a working man, stood out starkly against the richer clothes of his friends. He knew it did not bother the others, but sometimes he felt a bit wounded, and more than a little jealous. Feuilly would never hold it against Les Amis, though, but rather let those feelings fuel the fire inside him. This drove him to work vigorously at everything he did; his small business of fan making, his self-education, and his studies of revolutionary efforts. In his mind, these things had the potential to put him on the level of his wealthier friends. If he could master these things, he might become one of them in his own mind. They accepted him as he was, but he would always push himself. Hard work was the only work Feuilly did.

Jehan watched Feuilly's thin fingers flit over the thin paper, occasionally glancing up at Courfeyrac, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly the poet pulled a small notebook from his pocket and started writing furiously, still glancing between Feuilly and Courfeyrac as he wrote. Such was the manner of things that inspired him. Jehan saw deep meaning in nothing, and beauty everywhere. His romanticism was bizarre and endearing all at once. The muses of Jehan were indescribable. He was inspired by love and happiness, but more than once he had written poems of a more serious nature, depicting Les Amis or the Revolution they imagined. He was a lovely writer nonetheless. His pieces were bright and pretty, like the author that wrote them.

Joly sat opposite Jehan, a handkerchief in his hand, waiting for a sneeze that would probably never come. His medicinal studies had not only broadened his mind, but his fears as well. He imagined that the pressure and dryness of his sinuses were symptoms of cholera. Jolllly, the others called him. Their malade imaginaire.

On the other side of Joly sat Bossuet. Armed with the worst of luck and the brightest of outlooks, the Eagle of Meaux ambled through life with a cheery smile and a hat on his person at all times.

Combeferre the philosopher, Combeferre the teacher, Combeferre the guide sat at a third table. Every so often he would push his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. Fire burned behind his eyes, but it was candle light aflame, gentle and thoughtful, not at all like the passion that would possess Enjolras.

Next to Combeferre, Enjolras sat in quiet repose, like a statue in stillness and beauty. His face made it obvious that he had heard Courfeyrac's spiel before, but his furrowed brow betrayed the workings in his head. His mind was always active, but he was not one to speak every thought that came to him. He was a quiet and contemplating man, as opposed to the vociferous and impulsive Courfeyrac.

And Marius still had that goddamned handkerchief.

* * *

**Short chapter. I apologize. Please review with your opinions! This was possibly the crappiest chapter yet, so feel free to be brutally honest. I don't give a flying rat. Constructive criticism makes me happy. I just need to put something up. **


	6. Ministering Angel

**CK: Heh, I know the 'at least' part was out of character, but I want to do something with it. You actually read my mind for how I wanted the plot to proceed. The 'at least' character inconsistency was planned. The other part, the flinch, was undoubtedly a mistake disfiguring the character. My bad. Still trying to get the rhythms of each character. I'm glad you liked my descriptions of Les Amis. I was afraid that I had totally screwed them up. Thank you so much for another invaluable review, and good luck with the AP's! **

**Jezebel Ark: Thank you so much!**

**the-sarcastic-cynic: Haha that means I'm doing something right! No worries; I will! Thanks! **

**TheTreesAreFullOfStarlight-EE: Wow, genius? I wouldn't go that far, but I definitely appreciate it! Thank you!**

**Thanks to those who have reviewed! Your kind words just make my day. I hope I can continue to please you! Opinions are welcome. Enjoy!**

* * *

Eponine, still bathed in shadow, tried to pull her eyes from Marius. She knew that looking at him wouldn't help her in any way, shape, or form. His dark curls and soft eyes made her insides want to be outside. She wondered what his lips, currently pursed in thought, would feel like against hers… Would he ever kiss her? No. He was much too awkward. It was endearing, really, his clumsiness. Eponine found him quite adorable.

_He'll never love you,_ a voice in her head told her. It felt like a slap in the face, that moment of clarity. She knew, of course, that she would never have his love, but every time she allowed herself to remember that, it crushed her. This obsession was unhealthy, as Eponine knew.

She forced herself to look at the dandy who was talking. Courfeyrac, she recalled. She had a talent for names and faces. She learned from her father that those things were useful to remember. It was one of the only decent things she had learned from him.

Courfeyrac was handsome, young, and smart; he collected girls like trinkets. Shiny, pretty little things that you keep and protect and adore. He was fond of pretty things, and was in love with the very idea of romance. That explained his taste in fashion and respectful pursuit of various women, but did not explain his affection towards Les Amis. He loved them wholeheartedly, as if they were each his own brother. It was inexplicable, this devotion. Courfeyrac always found something to laugh about as well, serving often as the comic relief of their occasionally grim society. Enjolras was the leader, the chief, of Les Amis, and Combeferre was the philosopher, the voice of reason. Courfeyrac… Courfeyrac's purpose was to mock those two, if his intent was taken on face value alone. Anyone who looked closer at him would see that he was the core of Les Amis. He was radiant and passionate, and attracted the others like a magnet. Enjolras might have given off the light of the sun, but Courfeyrac certainly provided the heat.

He spoke of a student, one he had argued with during one of his classes. Eponine found herself drawn into his retelling of the debate as this Courfeyrac spoke. He talked of the audaciousness and ignorance of the student, who had claimed the poor were incapable of picking themselves up and becoming respectable. Women, especially. Courfeyrac relayed this with outrage, valiantly defending the softer gender. Eponine wondered secretly what he would think of her. Here she was, one of the women his opponent had spoken against specifically. Would Courfeyrac speak so bravely when he knew of her? Would he claim that she was able to redeem herself still?

She did not pretend that she understood all of what he was saying, but she caught the general idea and appreciated the notion.

When Courfeyrac stopped speaking, Feuilly stood immediately to talk to him. Thus, the room broke into chatter between the men. Enjolras still sat, obviously without any agenda for the meeting, and let Les Amis converse. Eponine felt uncomfortable. Now that their attention was off the dandy, would they realize they had another listener?

She made to move before she caught the eye of one of the men, but Combeferre spotted her before she could slip out the back. A dagger of fear in her heart sent an adrenaline rush through her body.

"Hello," Combeferre said, making his way to her and sitting. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting yet. Is this the first of our gatherings you've attended? I don't recognize you… Oh, lord." His jaw dropped.

Eponine ducked her head. "Hello, monsieur. I am Eponine. You've met me, but undoubtedly you've forgotten my name. That's alright. Not everybody remembers my name. I haven't forgotten yours, though, Monsieur Combeferre," She said. "You picked me up last night in the rain, when I had fallen on the ground. That was very kind of you. No, I shan't soon forget your name," she smiled meekly.

"What are you doing here?" Combeferre asked.

"Why, I came to listen! Can't I hear these wonderful ideas you all have? Please don't make me go!" Eponine pleaded.

Combeferre smiled grimly. "Mademoiselle, of course you can stay. I would never make one who wished to listen and learn about the Republic leave. You are welcome here. But may I ask; where did your hair go?"

Eponine clapped her hands. "Oh, thank you! I know you wouldn't make me leave. It's the others that might not want me here," she said, murmuring the last bit conspiratorially before touching her hair. "I sold it, monsieur. Easiest money I've ever made," she said. "Cleanest money I've ever made," she added. "I'm going to get better, monsieur. You and your good friends won't have to pull me from the gutters again. I promise." She looked at him earnestly, shorn, dark hair framing her thin face.

Combeferre flinched when the bruises and cuts on her face caught the light. How could somebody have done that to a young woman? Or any other human being for that matter? What could be accomplished by hurting another? Combeferre sighed, unconscious of the action. Why couldn't there just be peace?

Suddenly tired, Combeferre passed a hand over his eyes. "That's good, mademoiselle. That's good." He didn't really know what else to say. The incongruent pair sat in silence for a moment. Combeferre was saved from the awkwardness by the arrival of dear Feuilly.

"Combeferre," the fan maker said, holding out a thick leather book with _De L'Esprit des Lois_ printed on the front. "I've finished this. Thank you."

"Already? How have you finished it already? Feuilly, don't tell me you've been slacking off on your work to read a book I lent you," Combeferre mock-scolded.

Feuilly grinned. "No, I lost no money over it, but rather many candles and more than a few hours of sleep. It was very much worth it. Montesquieu had some… interesting theories," he said, lips twisting slightly.

Combeferre leaned back, a smile spreading across his face. "Ah, so you wish to argue, do you?"

"You cannot believe that climates affect political attitudes!"

"I do not in the slightest. But I am in the mood for a debate, my friend." And so Eponine was forgotten as the student and the working man launched into a laughing discussion over the philosophies of the Baron de Montesquieu.

Feeling more than a little bit over her head, she stood from her table in the corner and crossed the room to Grantaire and his bottle. The drunkard may or may not be speaking in simpler terms, depending on what number bottle he was on, but he was far more accepting than his friends.

"Well, who are you?" Grantaire asked, squinting as she sat down. "Haven't seen you around here before. You've come to see our fearless leader, haven't you? That Enjolras-"he began, but quickly recognized the gamine even in his state of inebriation.

"Mon dieu, Eponine," he said, taking a swig off his bottle at the pause. "You've cut your hair."

"Yes, Monsieur Grantaire. I have. Is there something wrong with that?" she bristled. "I am allowed to fund myself in any way I see fit. I think that is something I can do. Would you care to argue?"

"Be calm, Eponine," Grantaire said in placating tones. "I meant nothing by it." In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Grantaire returned to his bottle, allowing Eponine to look at Marius once more. It was a dreadful circle, this unrequited love. No; circle was not appropriate. Eponine loved Marius, and Marius loved Cosette. A circle would imply that Eponine was loved as well, which was inaccurate.

* * *

On the other side of the room, Enjolras sat, deep in thought, contemplating the ideas of Courfeyrac. He undoubtedly felt the same, but never had thought to act upon such feelings. He remembered the prostitute who had propositioned him earlier. He could not allow himself to be content with the small thing he did. He could feel the words of Grantaire and the Thenardier girl nagging at him. He could not let it be said that he was only a man of words. Words were the kindling for his flame, this flame of Revolution he nursed so caringly. Actions would cause the flame to grow and grow, until the king had a Republic burning at his door. Enjolras shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. He forced himself to think in short-term goals; what would both earn the trust of the peasants and help them get out of poverty?

Enjolras's statuesque face was closed and cold as his thoughts ran rampant, changing and morphing and swirling together as he tried to come to a conclusion.

Combeferre saw the look of deep thought on Enjolras. He disentangled himself politely from his conversation with Feuilly and crossed the room to sit with his leader once more. He watched his friend's stony mask carefully; something was forming in his leader's mind.

"Combeferre," Enjolras said quietly, looking up from the recesses of his mind as Combeferre sat before him.

"Yes?" Combeferre responded instantly. "What is it? I can see the gears moving in your head, old friend. Do not try to lie; you've got some plan hatching."

"The books that the children's schools use; you know the ones I speak of?" Combeferre tried not to look too taken aback by Enjolras's question, but it was definitely out of the ordinary.

"The ones that teach handwriting or the ones that teach mathematics and history?" Combeferre asked, warily regarding Enjolras's words. What could he possibly want with children's books?

"Both. Do you know where they could be purchased, and what the cost would be?"

"Yes, I do, actually. Enjolras, what do you intend to do?"

"I should like to see them distributed to the poor," Enjolras replied brusquely, as if it that was the obvious answer.

Combeferre blinked. "That is a brilliant idea, my friend," he said, eyes sparkling. "To think! What a gift we would be giving! Education is the barrier between the bourgeois and the impoverished. Knowledge is the only thing that separates the classes. Once we even the playing field for them, the poor will be able to obtain better jobs, and improve their positions. What a wonderful idea!" He said softly, smiling.

Enjolras allowed a tiny smile at his friend's words, but let it disappear back under his marble mask. "That is the intended result. You know that, and I know that, but do they know that?" He said, they being the poor. "And how readily will they take to such 'gifts'? Will they even see them as such? Or will they think that we are schoolboys poking at things that should be left alone? I fear their pride might bar them from taking kindly to us."

"Feuilly would adore the idea," Combeferre said. "Let him hear it. And Courfeyrac as well. Feuilly! Courfeyrac!" He called across the room, summoning the two students.

He quickly relayed Enjolras's idea to the two, and watched for their reaction. Courfeyrac did a silly little hop. Enjolras raised an eyebrow in mirth at the merriment.

"That's fantastic!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "Perfect! And once we give the people means to an education, we will earn their trust, and we can introduce them to the idea of the Republic, then we could work on getting arms, and then-"

"Calm yourself, Courfeyrac," Feuilly said, placing a hand on his bouncy friend's arm. "Enjolras, that is a majestic idea. I know that you must have already taken into consideration the reaction this will bring. This won't be accepted by everybody, and there will be many not willing to take our presents of books and tutelage." He smiled anyways. "But I do love the idea!"

"I should like to test it out before going any farther," Enjolras said seriously. "If it goes well, we will go forward with it, and buy books to be handed out on the streets. I fear you three might be misunderstanding me; we cannot run a school. I merely would like to make it possible for the poor who wish to learn have the materials to do so."

"I'll get you a lovely gamine," Courfeyrac said. "Straight off the streets. We will educate her, and polish her with our teaching. She will become a proper lady, and I'll be able to show Merle just how wrong he was. He'll fear to speak up like he did next time around," Courfeyrac said, eyes glittering with that diabolic beauty of mind he possessed. "Of course, this isn't just for my own revenge. You can test your idea in a way that'll benefit everybody involved. Some poor girl will get a chance at a new life. How great is that? Oh, everybody shall win! This will be fun!" He hopped again, clapping his hands. "Which way do I walk to the nearest brothel?"

Joly looked up at the word _brothel. _"Next street over," he said, sniffing in disdain. "You'll smell the syphilis as you get near it. The hell, Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac waved his hand dismissively and skipped out the door.

"Or," Combeferre said lowly. "You could always ask the Thenardier girl."

Enjolras blinked. "Of course," he said slowly. "…Where shall we find her? She left my home this morning, and I haven't seen her since. And Feuilly, fetch Courfeyrac. I fear he might get distracted on his search." Feuilly stood quickly and headed out after Courfeyrac.

"She's here," Combeferre said.

"_What?"_

"Sitting with the wine cask." Enjolras looked, but did not comprehend. He stood and strode to their table, refusing to look at Grantaire and instead keeping his eyes on the new figure.

He touched the newcomer's shoulder. The person turned. It was indeed Eponine. She bore the same pattern of bruises and cuts she had worn that morning. The only thing that had changed was her hair. The dirty locks were gone. The gamine flinched, but quickly turned and smiled delightedly when she saw who it was.

"Oh, hello! It's you again! My savior! I do not know where I would have gone last night. And your kind friends. Where is the one that wrapped my rib? I would like to thank him again. Would I die if my rib healed wrong? Would that be painful? It hurts now, but that sounds a lot worse. I owe him my thanks for that." Her smile faded. "Please don't kick me out," she added.

"I won't kick you out," Enjolras told her. "How are you, mademoiselle?" he asked.

Eponine brightened. "Oh, I'm fine, thank you! My ribs hurt like hell, but what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, right? And I'm getting stronger. I'm sorry for last night. I wasn't right…"

"There is nothing to be sorry for," Enjolras said, forcing a smile.

"Well, then. Why did you come over here to see me?" Eponine asked. "You must want something. People like you just don't talk to people like me." She smiled sadly.

_People like you._ The words packed a bit of sting to Enjolras. What did she mean by people like him? Did she mean the wealthier people, who simply had no reason to care about the poor and oppressed? He'd be damned if he was thought of as one of those people. Enjolras did not want to be known as one of _those people._

"I wanted to see how you were doing," Enjolras explained. "You were in bad shape last night. You still are."

"You care! Monsieur is too kind!" Eponine's smile seemed far too wide for her face.

Grantaire coughed, looking up from his bottle with bloodshot eyes. "He doesn't care."

Enjolras blinked and calmly turned to face the drunk. "Excuse me, Monsieur Winecask?" he asked evenly.

"I said, you don't care about this girl. You care about your Revolution, which is doomed as it is, and that is all. She is means to an end, is she not? You adopt the street rat, people take notice, and suddenly, you're a hero. People come to stand behind you. You have troops to fight your righteous fight. Isn't that true?"

"Grantaire, you're drunk. There is no reason to speak such harsh untruths," Enjolras said coolly.

"If you cared about something like her, you wouldn't be so cold to something like me," Grantaire continued, slinging an arm around Eponine's thin shoulders, causing her to shirk away. "We're not very different, her and I. Ugly wretches, we are. We drink and we get bruised and we pick ourselves up and start again the next day. What's the difference between us?"

"She tries," Enjolras replied.

Eponine wriggled away from Grantaire. "What?" The two chorused.

"She tries, Grantaire," Enjolras repeated. "She gets back on her feet and meets the dawn with a smile. You show up drunk with nothing but cynicism for our ears to have the displeasure of hearing. What makes you so melancholy, Winecask, that you must wallow in a pit of your own despair and bring displeasure to us all?" he asked sharply. "Leave me to my own reasoning. Do not assume you know my motives." His severe gaze cut Grantaire like a knife.

"Mademoiselle, I apologize," Grantaire said to Eponine, standing. He never specified what he was sorry for, and simply walked out of the room. He left his bottle on the table.

What had happened to Grantaire that made him go so eagerly to the drink? Eponine had been driven to alcohol only by her hardships; that is, her poverty and eventual slide into immorality. Grantaire was certainly not poor, and he had many friends around him. Enjolras was not one of them, but there were others still. By all reasoning, Grantaire should have been happy. Something had made him turn to booze and sarcasm. He was hiding something behind his cynicism and perpetual drunkenness.

"Poor man," Eponine whispered. Enjolras turned his icy look to her.

"Why do you say that, mademoiselle? He insulted and complimented you in one booze-tainted breath, and tried to say you were like him. He is not to be pitied," he informed her coldly. "Now, come. Let us speak of other matters."

"Whatever you say, monsieur," Eponine replied with a shrug.

Combeferre cleared his throat, looking intently at the gamine. "Mademoiselle, forgive me for being so blunt, but do you know how to read?"

"What a ridiculous question!" Eponine reddened. "Of course I can read! I wasn't meant for this life, you know. My maman raised me to be a lady. Of course, you've seen how that's worked out for me… But I am educated!"

"We mean no offense, mademoiselle," Combeferre reassured her, looking around the Café backroom for a moment. He saw that Jehan, at the table next to him, had abandoned his notebook for a book of verse. Combeferre simply reached over and pulled the tome from the poet's hands, ignoring the protestation.

"One moment, mon ami," he said to Jehan, opening the book to a random page after looking at the cover. "And I thought you were over your Shakespeare phase? You told me you had entirely renounced anything English. Anyways," he addressed Eponine. "Would you please read this to me?" he asked, pointing to a phrase at the top of the page.

Eponine looked at the words tentatively. "No more need be done," she began easily, "We should por- porph- profane the service of the dead. To sing a reck- riq- … re-queen, a-ride such rest to her, as to peace-parting souls. Lie her in that earth, and from her fair and un-…unpopulated flesh may violins spring, I tell thee, churdy priest…" She stumbled over the words, her tongue tripping her. She did not know those words.

Jehan winced at the mutilation of the verse, while Enjolras stared at a spot on the far wall. Combeferre gently eased the book from her grasp. She did not realize she had been clutching at it like it would simply up and run away.

"That was… good effort," Combeferre said, putting on a condescending smile.

"I never liked Hamlet," Enjolras said suddenly, returning from his inner musings. "Sorry, do go on."

"No, that's quite enough," Jehan muttered. Combeferre shot him a silencing look.

"As I said, very good, mademoiselle," he returned his attention to Eponine. "Now, could you-"

"Please, good monsieur, call me Eponine," The gamine interrupted. "I'm no lovely maiden. Address me with my given name."

"Yes, of course, _Eponine_," he tried again. "Can you write?" Before he could steal the notebook and pencil from Jehan, the poet had already placed it in front of him.

"Oh, yes! See, I can write…" She hastily scribbled four words on a scrap of the paper. _The cognes are here, _it read.

The trio attending her read this with some surprise. "Ah, yes, I could see how that would come in handy," Combeferre said uncomfortably. "Ah- yes." He repeated as the girl beamed her distorted smile up at him. "And what about your name?"

"What about it?"

Combeferre exhaled. "Can you write it?"

"Write what?"

"Your name, mademoiselle," he said, exasperated.

"Eponine."

"Yes!"

"No, call me Eponine! And I can write it!" She put the pencil to paper again, eager to please the exhausted Combeferre. Enjolras looked on, lips pressed in a tight line. Jehan had an expression of dreamy amusement on, like he found the proceedings vaguely funny but was not really involved.

_E-p-a-n-e-e-n, _the paper read. "Close enough," Combeferre sighed. "Do you like learning, Eponine?"

"Oh, yes!" She clapped her dirty hands together. "My maman would teach me things, but she stopped when we came to Paris. I would love to be as smart as you, monsieur. Monsieur Marius is very smart, too. I should like to be smart like him."

"Pontmercy is a sheep," Enjolras mumbled under his breath. Jehan giggled.

Eponine did not hear. "I would read more," she rambled on. "But I have no books. Books are such pretty things, are they not? They don't look like much, but they hold something special inside, don't they?"

"Indeed, " Combeferre told her, catching Enjolras's eyes. Enjolras made a sign for him to continue speaking. The two were always in tune with each other like that, for reasons unknown. "If you wish, we could get you some books, and help you with your writing."

Eponine looked at him, mouth agape. "Oh, no, monsieur, I could never ask you to do that!"

"You haven't asked us anything," Enjolras reminded her. "We are offering."

"Why?" Eponine asked.

"If you had had a better education, maybe you wouldn't have ended up the way you are now," Enjolras said. "I mean no offense by that."

"Education is the savior of man," Combeferre explained. "It is more powerful than any war. Education alone will save the poor." He gave Enjolras a pointed look. "Fighting will change the government, yes, but education can give us men to run a new Republic. Peace will yield more substantial results than bloodshed."

"I could argue," Enjolras said in reply to Combeferre's statement, "But the cause I cannot go against. Combeferre is right. Education can raise the abased."

"I cannot disagree with that," Eponine said. "Whatever you are doing- I lost you in your speeches- you can count me in on."

"Good," Combeferre smiled. "At the very least, I can have school books available to you by the day after tomorrow." He looked at his pocket watch. "Now, I must be leaving. Goodnight, Enjolras, Jehan, mademoiselle." The student wove his way between Les Amis, earning a clap on the back from Bahorel and an embrace from Joly.

"That's settled, then," Enjolras said briefly. "You will be returning to my home tonight?" He asked Eponine, though it wasn't much of a question.

"I cannot impose on you, monsieur."

"Joly said that you must rest. And seeing as you have no place better to go, you had best stay with me," Enjolras stated brusquely. "Come along, mademoiselle. It is late. We'd best be leaving. Goodnight, Jehan," he said to the poet. He raised his voice as he walked Eponine out. "Goodnight, all."

Choruses of well wishes met his ears.

"I always did prefer Julius Caesar," Jehan murmured absently himself. _"When beggars die there are no comets seen," _quoth he, _"The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes." _

* * *

**This wasn't my best. It felt extremely risky, the way I manipulated Les Amis. If I did it wrong, let me know. Constructive criticism is love. I'd like to hear your opinion on anything! I still own nothing, just in case I haven't mentioned it in a while. **


	7. The Day is Done

**CK: Thanks. That first sentence you wrote; that was really inspiring. Thank you.**

**I don't have my entire plot planned, so some parts I just make up as I go. I worry about those ones… I really like how the parts you liked came out; it makes me happy to see that someone appreciates them! The Joly comment was out of line, but I didn't feel like "What the deuce" would have gotten my message across the way I wanted Joly to say it. My old French slang is rusty. As in, nonexistent XD. Any help on that subject would be greatly appreciated. I know of **_**merde**_**, but that's it. And the last part. I have no idea how to phrase an explanation that won't give anything away, so I'm just going to leave you hanging. So sorry. Anyways, thanks so much for another review. They really have helped improve my writing. **

**TheTreesAreFullOfStarlight-EE: I'll do my best! Thank you!**

**Jezebel Ark- Better late than never! I'm glad that my Courfeyrac impresses you. He's tough to write, too! **

**I'm going to see the next town over's high school perform Les Mis this week. It'll be my first time seeing it live, so I'm really worried that it won't match up with my expectations. I've heard their drama program is awesome though, so I'm really excited. **

**Enjoy! I live off reviews!**

Enjolras led the way down the Rue Saint-Michel in the darkness. He walked quickly and purposefully, and did not cast a glance behind him. Chin up, shoulders back, he always looked as if he meant to stare down the worlds. Whoever blinks first loses.

Eponine followed him like a shadowy dog, limping slightly, favoring her left leg. She kept her chin up as well, thrusting it ahead of her belligerently. She looked ready to pick a fight with anything that would challenge her. Offense is the best form of defense, after all.

"Beautiful night," she said to break the silence. Enjolras only nodded in response. "The stars are gorgeous," she added.

"I suppose."

Eponine dropped the subject. She hastened her pace in a burst of speed to walk even with Enjolras, but kept her silence. She looked up into his closed face. He had such an old countenance for one who looked so young. He _did_ look like a statue. So beautiful and hard. Did he feel cold to touch, like a real statue?

Eyes wide, Eponine reached out and touched his hand. Enjolras turned swiftly to face her.

"Yes?"

"Oh, nothing, monsieur. Just seeing if you were cold," Eponine replied, smiling. "You look too perfect. Like a stone angel. Just wanted to see if you were really cold," she repeated.

Enjolras stepped back from her, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers. "Mademoiselle, I am a human being, just as yourself," he said. She looked far from human, though. Sure, her hair was no longer infested in fleas, and she was not covered in blood and dirt, but she was still no lady. Her blouse was damaged and very revealing, and her skirts flared up well past her ankles. She barely even looked like a girl, now that her hair was cut short.

"You will need to bathe once we get to my apartment," Enjolras told her. "My landlady will allow you to use her facilities, providing that I pay her."

Eponine brightened visibly. "Really, monsieur? Maman always said that we could not afford to bathe as regularly as rich people. Papa always said that it was unhealthy," she sported a small frown, "but that can't be true, can it? No, it can't be true. Papa pretends he knows these things," she tapped the side of her head knowingly. "But I know he doesn't. So I believe I will take your word for it, for you are a student, and you must surely know better!" She paused. "You go to the same university as Monsieur Marius, don't you?"

"That is correct," Enjolras said with a brief nod, not acknowledging the first part of her conversation.

Eponine contemplated this quietly as they walked. "Do they allow women at the colleges?" The gamin suddenly blurted after a moment of concentration.

"No, mademoiselle…?" Enjolras wondered if Eponine might have had some mental illness that explained her attention deficit and tendency to flit from subject to subject like a little bird. Perhaps Combeferre would have an answer. A fractured mind would surely explain many of the things Eponine did. After all, what woman in their right mind would sell their hair _after _becoming a prostitute? It was a noble idea, but it almost seemed like it was too little, too late.

Of course, noble nonetheless.

"Why don't they allow women?" Eponine asked, disturbing his thoughts.

"They believe that women cannot be equal to men," Enjolras said, putting the sexism into words Eponine could handle. "They think that the place of women is at home, minding the children and household chores. Both of those activities do not require an education. There is also the stereotype that women are less intelligent than men as an entire gender, and only men possess the intelligence to further their own education."

"We girls can do anything you boys can do!" Eponine said childishly, crossing her arms over her skinny chest. "That's not fair."

Enjolras permitted himself a tiny smile. "That's very true, mademoiselle. I'm sure that you know life isn't fair. Inequality runs rampant in this society. A Republic would make things equal between the classes," he explained, gently leading the conversation from sexism to the social imbalances France faced.

"Yes, yes, I know that," Eponine said impatiently. "But would a Republic mean equal… things for women, too?"

"Eventually, we would like the Republic to have equality for everyone, but it might be more than a few years before people would consider giving women political rights," he answered honestly.

"But you do think it will happen?" Eponine asked anxiously. "If women had the same rights as men, maybe they wouldn't end up…" she gestured vaguely to herself. "You know," she finished.

"I understand," Enjolras said. "You sound like Combeferre. Education augmenting the opportunities for the abased, revolution but civilization, peace in the stead of war…"

"Oh, no, monsieur. War is perfectly fine for me."

"Pardon?"

"The king won't give up being fat and happy just because he hears some pretty words," Eponine said, shrugging. "I know I wouldn't. You'd have to give him a real show to make any progress." She looked up at Enjolras anxiously. "I'm hungry, monsieur, are we almost there yet?"

Enjolras was taken aback by Eponine's childishly simple astuteness. "Next block is my apartment," he answered. "My landlady will have something prepared."

Eponine did a little skip. "Oh, thank you, monsieur! This is really wonderful. Walking at night… even though it is terribly late… With a handsome man…. Even though you probably dislike me a little bit…" She rambled, oblivious to all else. Enjolras let her prattle on as they walked, feeling no need to stop her to add his own opinions.

She stopped and closed her eyes when they got to his building. "Mmh, I do believe I can smell some sort of food!" She exclaimed as the porter arrived to show them upstairs.

"Where were you last night?" Enjolras asked the porter quietly. "You could have saved me a headache by barring a certain few people from entering my flat."

"My apologies," the porter replied, raising a skeptical eyebrow at Eponine.

"Not her," Enjolras said quickly. "The drunkard, I meant."

"Ah," the porter said, clearly a bit confused. "Well, you know the way up, Monsieur Enjolras. I believe Madame Sauveterre has prepared a dinner for you, but it looks like you'll have to share."

"That is fine. Would you ask Madame Sauveterre to allow Mademoiselle Thenardier to use her bath? I am afraid she needs it desperately." Eponine crinkled her nose, but said nothing of Enjolras's description.

"Of course," the porter replied. "I'm sure she won't mind. I will call for you when it is prepared."

"Thank you. Goodnight, monsieur, and please, allow no more visitors up to my flat tonight."

With that, Enjolras led Eponine up to his home once more. A hot meat pie and a pitcher of fresh water sat on the wooden table.

"How kind," Eponine said. "Does she do this for you every night?"

"When I've had a late night like this, she assumes I've been too busy to eat and sends something up," Enjolras said with a shrug. "I pay her well enough for it."

"We used to own an inn, but my mother never thought to be nice like that," Eponine said. "She was good to 'Zelma and me, but that was all she cared about. Except Papa. She loved Papa." She glanced at the meat pie. "That smells delicious."

Enjolras took two plates from his cupboard and set them on the table alongside eating utensils. He cut a slice of the meat pie and set it on Eponine's plate before placing the plate in front of her.

She nearly attacked the food with her fork, jamming it inelegantly into her mouth.

"Mademoiselle!" Enjolras exclaimed. Eponine jumped, and looked up at Enjolras sullenly.

"What, monsieur?"

"Control yourself. Act like a lady. You are in no danger of starvation; I can assure you of that. There is nobody to steal your dinner from you."

"That goes over all nice and well in your clean little world, monsieur, but where I come from, it wasn't uncommon for someone to steal the bread from your very hands," Eponine said darkly.

"You're safe here, mademoiselle. Mind your manners."

"Forgive me," Eponine said, looking a bit cross. "I learned my manners at a young age. But when you hang around with criminals and prostitutes, they fall into disuse. I am sorry," she repeated, looking more sincere. Not taking her eyes of Enjolras, she resumed eating, carefully cutting her portions into bit sized pieces before delicately putting them inside her mouth. "See? I can act like a lady."

"Very good, Eponine," Enjolras said somewhat tiredly as he ate his own late dinner. "Don't prove it to me, prove it to yourself."

There was a knock on the door. "Send the mademoiselle down for her bath," the porter called, and his footsteps could be heard retreating back down the stairs.

"Walk out the door and turn left; my landlady lives two doors down. She will take care of you. I'll be here when you return," Enjolras said shortly, standing as she exited. He cleared the table before sitting down and opening the carpet-bag Bossuet had given to him.

All his papers were there, none missing, but there were a few additions. There was an illustrated pamphlet of a man, starved and dirty, begging in front of the Tuileries. Enjolras caught the symbolism- poverty under the king's nose. The beautiful illustration was signed by Feuilly, and the literature had been written by Bossuet. It was very well written, and Enjolras looked it over with a smile. It delighted him to see his dear friends doing such things. It made him remember that he would never be alone in this struggle; he would always have friends to fight the good fight alongside him. He made a mental note to have copies made at the printer's the next day.

Another addendum was a paper on the ailments that often afflicted the poor. The author was undoubtedly Joly, and he had written of ague, catarrh, cholera, consumption, and smallpox. The article had been doused heavily in medical terms, perhaps to appeal more to the student population. Undoubtedly, it sought to inspire pity for the wretched, and convince others that the people needed help. Enjolras was glad to see this work. It would help spread the word that there was genuine reason for concern. A popular misconception that the poor were simply that; poor. Not suffering from diseases no one would wish upon their worst enemy. Joly's paper would be invaluable in swaying the medical community towards their cause.

Joly. Jolllly. When would he marry that Musichetta of his? Enjolras swore that if he heard Courfeyrac pestering the young doctor about it again, he would personally propose to Musichetta for Joly.

Enjolras let himself be lost in these petty thoughts of les Amis's daily gossip, filtering through it in his mind until he heard another rapping at his door.

He placed his papers back in his carpet-bag and placed it under his chair before rising and walking to the door. The door opened on its own, revealing a much cleaner and better-smelling Eponine. She beamed up at him, and while her teeth were beyond help, she looked happier.

"You're clean," Enjolras stated. "Was Madame Sauveterre kind?"

"Oh, so kind, monsieur! She did not judge my bruises, but she said my bandages had to be thrown out," Eponine babbled. "She believes my ribs are healing well, but that I should see a doctor, if I could manage it. I told her your student friend would help me, and she said that that was very good. She said I need to eat more, and I told her I'm doing the best I can. She disapproves of my former profession, but I can tell she knows how it is for poor girls like myself. She is almost as kind as my own mother!"

"Maybe even more so, I imagine," Enjolras mused quietly as she entered and sat upon his divan.

"My mother was the best to me," Eponine said indignantly. "She made sure we had clothes in the winter and we always were clean and had our hair brushed, and she read to us every night…"

"She allowed you to become a prostitute," Enjolras reminded her, unable to help himself. If Eponine couldn't perceive the morality of her own mother, she would never last long in the world of politics.

"She did her best for me," she protested, albeit weakly. "It was my father who… you know what, never mind. Let me forget this all. It will not be as hard as remembering."

"As you wish," Enjolras replied. Eponine looked out his window and shivered.

"How late it is," she said, "Look; there is fog about. It looks like a big cloud has dropped down over Paris! The fog has covered the stars. How dreary. Might it rain again? It's very dark out. I cannot see the moon behind the clouds. But see; all the lights are still on across the city. We are not the only ones having a late night." She sighed. "I wonder where Monsieur Marius is. He would be visiting his dear Cosette, wouldn't he? He goes to talk with her late at night."

Enjolras wanted to say that he had no desire to know Marius's late-night whereabouts, but Eponine continued talking.

"He does love her so," she said, looking out the window forlornly. "She deserves it as well. She was an unhappy child, and it was my entire fault. Well, not all mine, but my family's. She deserves happiness now. Funny how fast things change, isn't it, monsieur? One day I am the pretty and pampered little girl, and the Lark is our servant. The next, she is beautiful and rich and living in a nice home and is loved by Monsieur Marius." She seemed to momentarily run out of words.

Enjolras felt uncomfortable as the girl poured her heart out. Thankfully, she did not look to him for any response, and kept talking.

"But I guess that's that, now. No use worrying over it, Eponine," she said to herself, then addressed Enjolras. "Would you read to me?" she asked abruptly.

Now Enjolras was convinced that he had to speak to Combeferre about the gamine's mental health.

"Maybe a poem," Eponine continued. "But none of that Chenier you have. I do not understand that completely. For a poet, he speaks entirely too much of politics. Is he dead? I imagine so. And no more of that 'Speare man; he was confusing too. And far too old. I find that extremely tedious."

Enjolras was too taken aback to move. Eponine beckoned to him.

"Come, read to me some poem. Something short, something simple, anything, monsieur. Anything to take my mind off the last few days. They've been rather hard on me, as I'm sure you've guessed. I'm very tired, but I'd like to hear you read to me before I sleep. Choose something, I don't care what. Of course I could read to myself, but you have such a pretty voice and I don't know words as well as you do. Your voice is even nicer than Monsieur Marius's. I bet you sing beautifully, too. Would you, please?" She beseeched. "Read to me, I mean. You don't seem like the singing sort."

Sighing inwardly, Enjolras pulled a book from his shelf. "Poetry, you say? Poetry tonight, but tomorrow we will start on history." He looked at the table of contents in the book. "Actually, we can do both tonight," he said. "Lord Byron wrote a poem about the Battle of Waterloo. Will that suit you?"

"My father saved a man at Waterloo!" Eponine exclaimed. "He was a sergeant! Oh, yes, do read it! Marius would like it as well; he adores Napoleon. He was the Emperor, right?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, we will get more into Bonaparte as we progress," Enjolras responded, moving towards the divan. Eponine scooted down on the divan to make room for Enjolras, who sat as far away from her as he could. He began reading, his soft tenor caressing the words. "There was a sound of revelry by night, and Belgium's capital had gathered then. Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright. The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men…"

He read until she fell asleep, which came quickly. He covered the girl with a blanket, thankful that he had had the divan cover cleaned by Madame Sauveterre. Wouldn't want the girl to contract lice again.

The words of the Eve of Waterloo ran through his head, making him quite tired as well. He retreated to his chamber and stripped down quickly. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, as the words _The foe! They come! They come! -f_inished the epic for him.

**Short by my own standards, but I'm not terribly disappointed. I actually did some planning on this one. Sorry for the obscene use of English poetry and hintings of American poetry. It's just one of those days. Sorry for the wait as well; just finished the last performance of Once on this Island. **


	8. Sweet Dreams

**Mary X- Thank you so much! I'm glad you like my story. And Grantaire. **

**CK: Thank you so much for reviewing! I really appreciate that you take the time to write one for every chapter, even though you're really busy. It means a lot! And I'm glad that I'm keeping everything in character, especially with the revolutionaries. I don't want them to just…stagnate. This isn't really a romance; it's Enjolras trying to save Eponine, and her eventual involvement with the revolutionary movement. I want all the aspects of the students to be recognized; Enjolras and Eponine aren't in their own little bubble. Eponine is part-Bonapartist, because aside from her own ideas, she hasn't really been exposed to much politics. She just soaks up whatever Marius says. **

**To those who have favorite or subscribed to this story, thanks! I really appreciate it, but I would totally love to see a review. I live for them! What you like, what you don't like, what you would like to see in future chapters; I'd love to hear it! **

**Ok, I went to see Les Miserables at a high school Friday night. It was very good, but my one problem with Les Miserables the musical (no matter who is in it) is their lack of elaboration on the students. They all stood for things that were just as relevant as the things the other characters stood for. Jean Valjean stood for redemption, and that's a very beautiful notion. I love him. But Les Amis all had… I don't know, parts of them that are worth passing on to the world. To me, the story of Les Amis was just as life-changing as the stories of Jean Valjean and Fantine. I wish they were more appreciated. Sorry, I know I'm preaching to the choir. That was immature. Sorry. **

**But still, the music is amazing. The reprise of "Do You Hear the People Sing?" in the Finale brings me to tears every single time. Every. Single. Time. **

**Anyways, remember to review and enjoy!**

* * *

Paris was dark and damp, and fog billowed over the paving stones. No lights were on in the city, and Enjolras relied on the scant light of a candle to guide him as he walked. The candle illuminated only a few feet in front of him. Enjolras walked down the street, alone, guided by a mysterious voice that led him through the streets. He could have sworn he heard Eponine's voice beside him, but there was nobody there. The wind blew around him, whipping his golden hair into his face.

"_Walk this way, monsieur, follow me," _The wind whispered in the gamine's voice. _"I'll show you out. Just follow me." _

_Show me out of where? _Enjolras wondered, but followed the voice.

"_Come on monsieur, don't slow down. Follow me," _the voice repeated. Enjolras allowed the voice to lead him into an alleyway, fog obscuring his vision. His candle shined upon the brick wall ahead of him. He had met a dead end.

"Eponine?" He called in the darkness, using the peasant girl's first name for the first time.

"Are you looking for someone, dear boy?" A new voice rasped. A woman crawled from the shadows on her hands and feet. Greasy grey hair hung in mats about her face, and a menacing smile revealed an astounding lack of teeth. Bugs crawled in the blackened gums of the wretch. She blew a kiss to him, and his candle blew out.

"My friend," he responded instantly, backing himself against the wall. He kept his voice level as his adrenaline spiked.

The woman crawled closer to him, still on all fours. She tilted her head and crossed her cataract-webbed eyes. "Your friend, my boy?" She cackled. "You have no friends. You are all alone here," she gasped. "We are all alone. Nobody to fight with us, nobody to fight for us," she said in a singsong voice. "Do you have anything for me, boy? Anything for an old woman? Surely, you must have something. Give it here," she held out an arthritic hand.

Enjolras had nothing in his pockets; of that, he was sure. "I'm sorry, madame, I have nothing on me."

"Do you not want to share with old granny?" The woman asked. "Why not? Are you too good for the likes of us?" She lunged at him, clawing at his face. Enjolras pushed her away from him, throwing the old woman to the ground. The woman sprang back at him again. Enjolras covered his face against her nails, bracing himself.

Mid-jump, the woman gasped, milky eyes rolling backwards in her head. She fell to the ground upon her knees, blood exploding from beneath her sternum in a spray of red. She fell forward, dead. A knife protruded from her back. Her blood ran in rivulets on the paving stones.

"She was mad," A low voice growled. "Lunatic. The full moon will do that to ya." A giant man pointed up at the sky. All of a sudden, the moon was visible over the alleyway. It cast an eerie light on the assassin, who still had pulled his knife from the old woman with a sickening _schlick. _He held his knife in one large hand, and his beady eyes alighted upon Enjolras. "You don't blame me, do you? She was going to kill you, you know." The man stepped forward, towering over the blonde. Muscles rippled under his bloody shirt, and he wore no shoes on his gigantic feet.

"Ah, thank you," Enjolras said calmly, even as he pressed himself against the wall. "Now, I must find my friend…"

The giant man laughed a bellowing laugh. "That hussy is not your friend! You have no friends. All on your own here, you are. We all are." The man paused, looking Enjolras up and down. "Give me all your money," he demanded tersely.

"I have nothing," Enjolras said evenly. "Now, I'd like to take my leave…" He made a move to dart behind the man and back into the alley, but the mysterious man slammed him back against the wall.

"None of that." The man waved his knife in front of Enjolras's face, cutting a deep gash into his cheek. "Give me all your money or I'll slice up your pretty face," he threatened.

Enjolras did not flinch, could not flinch, could not _move_. "I have nothing," he said.

The once-dead woman rose from the ground, gaping hole gushing blood from her chest. "Of course you must have something!" She exclaimed, leaping forward to claw Enjolras's face. The man joined in with deep slices from the knife.

Enjolras screamed, but no sound was made. Three more figures appeared in the darkness and approached them.

"Alms for the poor," the wretched, dirty persons called. "Alms."

"He has nothing!" The woman screeched madly.

"Nothing but his empty promises to us!" The man crowed, cutting Enjolras's chest.

"Get him!" The three converged on Enjolras. They beat him and stabbed him and bit him in turn, and Enjolras was paralyzed.

A National Guardsman came around the corner into the alley toting a musket. Hope shined in Enjolras.

"Help me!" Enjolras called.

"Republican!" The Guardsman shouted, and aimed his gun. _Crack!_

* * *

Enjolras sat up in bed with a start, covered with cold sweat, panting like a dog. His sheets lay tangled about him. He jumped when he looked up into the gaunt face of his houseguest.

Eponine stood over him, pacing, wringing her hands. "Monsieur, are you okay?" She asked worriedly. "You seemed to be dreaming, but you didn't look quite right. Are you feeling well?"

Enjolras wiped the sweat from his brow. "I'm fine," he said shortly.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Eponine asked, sitting beside him on the bed. "You were tossing and turning and calling out, 'Nothing, I have nothing.' You frightened me."

"It was but a nightmare." Enjolras replied, taking care that he was covered by his sheets.

"I know about nightmares, monsieur," Eponine said, smiling sadly. "Would you like to tell me about it? Nobody ever asked me about my nightmares, but I think saying them out loud would have made me feel better." She brushed her short hair out of her face. "I won't tell your friends."

"Thank you for your offer, but I'd rather not. It was only a dream, after all," Enjolras told her, pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead.

"But dreams mean something, surely you know that," Eponine said seriously, brown eyes wide. "They show your inner wants and needs and thoughts and feelings," she said. "And your fears," she added.

"Please tell me," she said, drawing her skinny legs up on to the bed. "I won't tell another soul. And you'll feel better, I promise."

"Alright, then," Enjolras said uneasily. "I dreamt that I was walking alone at night, and I was following you, mademoiselle."

"You dream of me?" She asked, excited, but then her countenance fell. "Oh, it was a nightmare, that's right."

"Anyways, your voice led me to a dead end. I was attacked by five peasants, all demanding money. They attacked me, and I was frozen. A National Guardsman came, and I called for him. He shouted 'republican' and shot me. Then, I woke up. Just a dream, mademoiselle. Nothing real to fear."

"But do you feel better?" Eponine pressed.

Enjolras forced a smile. "I do, thank you."

Eponine grinned. "Oh, good! That's good. I'm glad you feel better. Now, monsieur, would you please help me? My ribs are hurting me. I do not wish for the broken one to heal in a strange position. My appearance is bad enough without any further deformities."

Enjolras thought for a moment, and then remembered how Joly had bound her broken rib to set it straight. "Yes, of course. Ah…I need to get up," he said.

Eponine looked at him expectantly. Then realization dawned upon her. "Oh, you're not dressed! Silly me. I forgot. I do not care, but you do, obviously. I'll be outside your door," she promised, getting to her feet and hurrying out. Enjolras noted that she still held a hand to her side as she walked.

He rolled out of his bed quickly and pulled on a pair of trousers and a cotton shirt, not bothering to button the latter. A thought occurred to him, and he pulled a second shirt out and held it in his hand. He returned to his bedside table to fish around for a moment. He retrieved clean linen bandage strips and closed the drawer once more. Eponine was waiting for him when he walked into his living room with the clean shirt and homemade bandages in hand.

"Monsieur, where do you get all these bandages?" She questioned.

"I keep a first aid kit in my bedroom, in case I or any of my friends are here in need of immediate medical attention. I hope that such precautions will be unnecessary, but one never knows what the future holds. Anyway, it's all the better for you, isn't it?" He replied.

"I suppose." She shrugged, and she nonchalantly proceeded to remove her tattered and revealing shirt. No blush rose to her cheeks as she did so.

Enjolras had braced himself, but he was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes. He looked away quickly, but forced himself to look back to Eponine.

Her prominent ribs which had stuck out so painfully two nights ago where covered in an assortment of colors. A rich purple had spread over the area of the broken rib, accented by green hues tinged with yellow on the outside. The bruise spread all the way from the broken rib to the top of her chest, where knife scars still lingered on her flesh. The bruises on her neck had taken shape as they healed, and assumed the outline of two large hands on the soft skin of her throat.

Eponine covered her skeletal chest with her scrawny arms, a wild look in her eye. "Why do you look at me so? I am no animal," she whispered hoarsely. "Do not look at me like that! Don't judge me, monsieur!" She raised her voice to a wavering pitch.

Enjolras cast his eyes away before answering. "I am not looking at you, mademoiselle, nor am I judging you," he said mildly, walking towards her slowly with his eyes averted. "Let me bind your ribs for you." He began to tie the strips of cloth about her ribcage, ignoring the whimpers of pain he occasionally wrought from the gamine. He turned her round to tuck the ends of the bandages away; he noticed bruising he hadn't seen before. Her protruding spine was lined with bruises, probably from being slammed against a hard surface. A wall or the ground, Enjolras assumed. He said nothing, though, and kept with his emotionless ministrations.

"Ow," said Eponine dully as one strip was knotted a bit too tightly.

"Hush," Enjolras replied stoically, finishing the wrappings and picking up the clean shirt he had brought out. "Put this on. Your former shirt was quite inappropriate for a young woman," he informed her. "This is much more decent."

"Did I look very indecent when I was at the café?" she asked worriedly. "Oh, how that must have looked. Your friends must think so badly of me…" she trailed off.

"They do not," Enjolras reassured her, but no more words of encouragement came to mind.

"Oh, they did." Eponine said sadly. "What Marius must think of me!" She buried her face in her hands.

"You can still redeem yourself," Enjolras said, not hesitating to play on the girl's feelings to get her to join his cause. "If you join us in our endeavor, we will make sure that you become a respectable young lady. If you help us," he explained. "We will do everything in our power to help you. Quid pro quo, as they say."

"I was sold by your promises at the café," Eponine said, with her eyes glimmering hopefully. "But the sound of that! How wonderful! The very thought that Marius would spare me a second glance! Oh, joy! I must make it happen! I swear I will work so very hard to learn, Monsieur Enjolras," she vowed, smiling her foul smile before sobering. "But I would do this for my own self, as well," she added. "I don't want to go back to where I was before. How terrible it was. Such pain I knew." She crossed her arms again, hugging herself. "I will never sink that low again, monsieur. I will kill myself before I resort to such means again."

"Good," Enjolras said briskly, deftly buttoning her shirt; as she was too busy speaking to do so. "Women should never degrade themselves as such. I pity you. When the Republic is installed, there will be no need for such vocations in France. There will be no monarchs left to leech the money from the people," he began, but slowed down when he thought that his words were going over Eponine's head.

"That would be ideal, wouldn't it? A world where no women had to sleep with men for money. But as long as there are jobless, hungry women, and wanting men, there will always be prostitution. Even with more money circulating, men will still be men, and as long as there is a demand for women, prostitution will never go away. I imagine that no matter where in the world, no matter what the government is, there will always be poor girls selling themselves. You are very kind to care, though." Eponine said, grasping her arms. "But you can help me! You will make a difference with me, and won't that be enough?"

"Nothing's ever enough," Enjolras muttered, not looking at Eponine. "Now, come. It is Saturday, and I have no classes today. Would you care to accompany me to visit my friend Feuilly? He will be working, but I must speak with him."

"That is fine by me," Eponine said, brightening. "I'd be content to follow you across Paris, just for something to do. I do not wish to go home yet. My father will have something to say about my absence, but he can't hurt me if he can't find me!" She exclaimed, remarkably chipper about such a morbid thought.

Enjolras ignored her final comment as he walked about the apartment, buttoning his shirt, tying a brown cravat about his neck, pulling on a grey waistcoat, and donning a pair of boots to match. He neglected to grab a hat or a great coat, seeming to ignore the fact that it was late November and winter was coming on soon. But that carpet-bag was in his hand all right. As for his golden hair, he simply ran his hand through the curls to untangle any knots. Even with his careless attempt at fashion, he was still looked handsome and affluent.

Eponine contrasted greatly against his lovely image. Her short hair was anything but proper, and did nothing to redeem the look of her borrowed cotton shirt over her ragged brown skirt. Her old beige overcoat hid the clothes to an extent, but she still looked coarse and unrefined against the marble statue of Enjolras. Her crooked teeth did not match the pearls in his mouth, nor did her olive skin compare to his pale white. The hat perched on her head threw her face into shadow, a fact she was grateful for. A bath had improved her appearance greatly, but hunger still showed in her drawn features. Her eyes looked about her restlessly, a look of intense depravation visible in the brown depths. Food wasn't the only thing Eponine had been lacking. She gave off an air of unwholesomeness, like there was always something missing from her life.

* * *

Enjolras took care to stay five paces away from her as they exited the garret and headed down the street. "What would you be doing right now, if this were a normal day?"

Eponine contemplated her answer to the question Enjolras asked. "I would run letters for my father, all across Paris," she said carefully. "He would make money off of them." She changed the subject quickly. "Who's Feuilly?"

"Feuilly is a fan-maker, and a good friend," Enjolras said.

"Is he a student, too?"

"He's self-educated. He taught himself how to read and write, and now he's one of the most intelligent men I know." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he said this. He knew Feuilly would appreciate being described as such. Feuilly was very modest, and would get upset if Enjolras said it in front of him, but it would make him happy nonetheless.

Eponine gaped. "Really? All on his own? I could of never done that. I had my maman teach me everything. Was it hard for him? I can imagine it was. Living all alone, working, and still teaching yourself to learn."

"He never complains," Enjolras said. "He works twice as hard as the rest of us, works for less than a quarter of what we have given to us every day, and gives all he can to our Revolution. Feuilly is a good man."

Eponine didn't respond, but rather developed a look of concentration. Her brow furrowed and she chewed the inside of her cheek. Not an attractive look, but one might find it mildly endearing.

Soon they arrived in front of Feuilly's shop; Eponine could make out a fan on the sign hanging above the doorway. The sign was made of old and rotting wood, and the paint artfully brushed on had been worn by the dreary Parisian weather.

Enjolras pushed open the door to the sound of a bell jingling. Feuilly was seated at a desk, painstakingly painting tiny bluebells on the creamy white paper of a fan. The fan-maker looked up at the sound, a smile gracing his features as he recognized Enjolras.

"Good morning, Enjolras!" He greeted him enthusiastically, standing to clasp his friend's hand.

"Good morning," Enjolras responded. "Have you met Mademoiselle Eponine Thenardier?"

Feuilly looked Eponine up and down, recalling her name. He remembered her as the poor, young prostitute who had wound up beaten and bloodied in the tavern they visited two days before. She looked very different now, though.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle," Feuilly said, gingerly taking her hand. She dropped a small curtsey out respect, accompanied by a conflicted smile. Here Eponine was, shaking the hand of a man who she might've been equal to, had she tried harder. If she went by what Enjolras had told her, Feuilly had been as bad off as she was, maybe even worse, for he was an orphan. Yet Feuilly had taught himself to be as smart as law and medical students, and worked an honest job to support himself. Feuilly had risen while Eponine had fallen by the wayside in their individual battles with poverty.

"Very good to meet you, monsieur," Eponine said, suppressing the guilt and shame she felt at being so much _less_ than the fan-maker.

Enjolras would not allow idle chitchat, and cut straight to business after the two's introduction. "Feuilly, I took a look at the pamphlets you and Bossuet worked on. Your picture was very worthy of praise, and Bossuet's words are very stirring. I should like to have copies made to be passed out. Would you care to blot Bossuet's and your own name out? In the possibility that the police may come upon it, I should not like them to know who you are," Enjolras told him.

Feuilly raised his chin. "If I were alone in this, I would leave my name on. Let them come for me! But alas, I am not alone. I have you all, and my capture would only condemn all of you. I could never do that," he said with a smile, and held out his hand for the paper. "I will paint it out." Enjolras passed him the pamphlet, and Feuilly simply returned to his palette to blot out _Feuilly _and _L'Aigle _from the paper in black paint. He blew on it briefly to dry it.

Enjolras gave a tiny smile. "That is the way to think, but I must advise you against such displays at the moment. My friend, if you willingly let yourself be caught, what help would you be to the Revolution? It is something to be proud of, but be cautious. Unnecessary problems with the law will only hinder us. I respect your enthusiasm very much, though. The time will come for all anonymity to be cast aside, and our names will go down in history, but for now, while it is just the few of us, it is prudent to keep to the shadows." He took the pamphlet back and examined it a final time. "I want this printed _today_. I will leave you to your work, then, and have this copied. Goodbye, my friend. I'll see you, tonight, at the Musain?"

"Yes, tonight, I'll be there," Feuilly said. "But stay, please, for a while. I must talk to you," he looked at Eponine, not unkindly. "In private, if it is doable."

"I should like to have this copied before it gets too late…"

Feuilly shrugged. "Send the mademoiselle. She looks like she is getting restless, anyways, Enjolras."

"I'll do it," Eponine said. "What'll you give me for it?"

Feuilly implored Enjolras with a look. "Twenty sous," Enjolras said, caving in to his friend's silent plea.

"I'm off, then! Which printer would you like me to go to? There are three in Paris. Would you like me to go the closest one? He's a Royalist, you know. Don't know how you'd like that."

"No, we employ Monsieur Bruyere. He turns a blind eye so long as we pay him well." Feuilly said as he fished in his pocket, pulling out two francs. "Here."

Enjolras pushed Feuilly's hand. "No, I've got the money."

"Let me add my piece; we can make more copies."

"I have enough, Feuilly, really!"

"Let me contribute to the cause," Feuilly said. "I made the money on my own; I can do with it what I want. Here, mademoiselle, take this and go," He held out the money once more. Eponine reached for it uncertainly, looking between the fan-maker and the law student.

Enjolras shot them both an icy glare. "Eponine, do not take the money. Feuilly, be reasonable. You are not the only man contributing to our cause. Between the rest of our friends, we have more than enough funds to pay for this. Keep your own money."

"Ah, fine, Enjolras!" Feuilly wisely gave up the argument and pocketed the two francs.

"Thank you." Enjolras took five francs from his pocket and gave them to Eponine. "Tell Bruyere it was I who sent you. We are regular customers; he knows what we want. Twenty sous for you upon your return."

"Anything you say, monsieur! This shall not take long. I know Paris like the back of my hand! When you know the side streets and back roads, you can get anywhere so much quicker. I'll be back soon!" She jogged lightly out the door, hand still on her ribcage.

"Slow down, mademoiselle!" Enjolras called behind her. "You'll only injure yourself more!"

Eponine did not hear.

* * *

"What is wrong with her?" Feuilly asked. "I mean, she's holding her side."

"Broken rib," Enjolras answered shortly. "As diagnosed by Joly."

"How did she do that?"

"She will not speak of it, but I do believe she had a…customer…. Who got a bit…rough…"

"Enjolras, speak plainly. Some john bought her for a night and beat her half to death. I saw the blood on her the night before last. I did not know she broke a rib. And, Joly examined her?" Feuilly questioned, trying to get the story straight.

"At the request of Combeferre; yes. He brought her to my apartment that night in the rain, and brought Joly along to see to her. She showed up at the café last night as well; you were there. You heard my idea, and how we wanted a live subject to see if our project would be worth trying on a larger scale. Eponine agreed to be a part," Enjolras said, expressionlessly. "She stayed with me the last two nights. Joly did not want her on the streets."

"Ah, I see now. I missed that part last night." Feuilly tilted his head. "And she's staying with you?"

"Joly did not want her sleeping on the street; else she might disturb the healing of her rib. Also- I do not want her to go back to her father's house," Enjolras confessed. "You heard what the men had to say about him. Eponine also alluded to him beating her. She said that he could not hurt her if he could not find her. She can't go back, not until she's fully healed, anyways."

"I understand. But people will talk, Enjolras. A scrawny, streetwalking gamine taking up residence with a rich, handsome law student? People will love to make up malicious rumors. And-"

Enjolras cut him off. "Feuilly, I do not care about gossip," he said, taciturn.

"I know, I know! But hear. When people gossip, they want to know more and more. For some of the working class, gossip is the only recreation they have. They'll ferret you two out; where you go on evenings, whom you go out to meet… They will discover that the Friends of the ABC aren't just a literary society," Feuilly warned. "If this gets out, we could face some problems with our local inspector."

Enjolras considered this. "They know the name and face of the mademoiselle Thenardier- or was it Jondrette? Nevertheless, they know the girl as a street rat who works under her con-artist father. They look now and see a poor, malnourished, and barely educated prostitute. With some good hygiene and better recognition, she'll be unrecognizable. She's already cut her hair, and she looks so different already."

Feuilly nodded slowly. "That'll work, with luck. And you and Combeferre are taking care of her education; that'll help. I'm just a bit paranoid that we might be discovered if people should start to talk and dig. Wouldn't that be ridiculous? To go to all the measures we do to ensure that we remain unknown to the government, only to be found out because of some petty rumors."

"I agree," Enjolras said. "I would be upset if the girl caused us to lose everything we worked for. We won't let it get to that point, though. She'll become our ward while we run this experiment."

"This is a very honorable thing you're doing, Enjolras. The girl needs help."

* * *

Eponine walked quickly through a dark alley, imagining bad men waiting in the dark for her. The girl was old enough to know that the dark was nothing to be afraid of, but life on the streets had taught her that those who hid in the darkness where something to be feared. She walked a bit faster, even though it was probably all in her head. She arrived at the printer's shop in half the time it would have taken had she used the main roads. Maybe Monsieur Enjolras would pay her a bit more if she arrived before he expected her to.

She gave the money and the pamphlet to Monsieur Bruyere, who pointedly ignored the picture and the writing on the paper. "For Monsieur Enjolras," she told him. He simply nodded and retreated to his printing press.

"I'll call for you when I'm finished," he said gruffly.

So Eponine exited the shop and lounged in the doorway, keeping her hat low over her face. She simply watched the people walk past the shop, taking in their clothes, their faces, what they speak of… People could be so strange. It was amusing to watch them dither about. So far, she had identified seven people whom she knew, but not a one recognized her with her short hair.

Not even Marius. He had passed her, presumably on his way to the Jardin du Luxembourg, where he spent nearly every day he didn't have classes. Eponine would follow him there quite often, just to watch him watch Cosette.

She felt sad that he had not recognized her and said hello, but another part of her was relieved. She didn't want him to see her like this. Eponine was sure that Marius had some inkling of her former profession, but she did not want to remind him of just how horrid she was.

She was no Cosette. Cosette was a virginal beauty, shining and happy and pure. Eponine was painted in darker shades. The two girls were both young, around seventeen years old. Cosette was still a pretty girl-child. Eponine had darkened into something twisted. Eponine's half-baked maturity had led her to be caught somewhere in the in-between; she was far too juvenile to be a woman, yet her circumstances had torn her childhood away from her.

A noise startled her from her people-watching. It was Monsieur Bruyere, with the pamphlets hot off the press and hidden in a thick paper folder.

He gave her a brief nod, handing her the portfolio. "Give Monsieur Enjolras my regards," he said curtly, and quickly returned to his shop. Eponine wondered why he was being so secretive. She understood that the ideas of Enjolras and his friends were not widely accepted, but this… this was intriguing. What about a Republic could make the blood of certain people run cold? What had they to fear?

The law, most undoubtedly. The Republicans were considered traitors, and were commonly thrown in jail for sedition when discovered. Bruyere must have feared jail time for assisting the radicals.

Disregarding the printer's wariness, Eponine set out on returning to Feuilly's. She moved as fast as she could without causing further pain to herself. She was no stranger to pain, but she would like to avoid it, if it were possible.

"I've returned!" A triumphant voice crowed outside of Feuilly's shop. Enjolras and the fan-maker shared a look; Eponine had come back.

"How did you do?" Enjolras asked, holding out his hand to receive the folder full of pamphlets.

"I did just fine, monsieur. The printer was very short with me, though. Like he didn't want to chat long," Eponine replied. "Was it because of the way I look?" She asked worriedly.

Feuilly smiled gently at the gamine. "No, mademoiselle, not that," he reassured her. "It's just that Republicans are thought to have dangerous ideas. Ideas that might get people arrested," he explained. "Bruyere does not want to associate with Republicans, so he keeps our transactions brief."

"Why would having ideas get somebody thrown in jail? I thought only criminals were thrown in jail. And sometimes, I see people put away for things they never did," Eponine said. "You certainly don't look like criminals," she added.

"We're not criminals, trust us," Feuilly said quickly.

"We just think that the king should not have rule over us any longer," Enjolras told her. "Some people fear what we could do, should we decide to rise up against the monarchy. And they are right to fear us. We will bring about a revolution so fierce that it will make the streets of Paris quake. France will never be the same again. France will be freed at last! But I digress, mademoiselle. A lot of people, ignorant rich men, do not want to see such an uprising, out of fear that it might work. So they throw us in jail whenever they get wind of Republicans forming groups, writing papers, et cetera," Enjolras explained.

"That's stupid." Eponine crossed her arms over her chest. "What would happen to you all if you were thrown in jail?"

"We have the resources to get out fairly easily. Money and law students are not things Les Amis de l'ABC lack," Enjolras said. "But we're being careful. We do not leave our names on anything we publish, and we never pass out propaganda where the police could find us. We work under the front of being a literary society," he reminded her. "The excessive printing and distribution of papers can be excused by that cover. To most people of power, we are only a group of wealthy schoolboys with some time on our hands."

"Ah," Eponine said, nodding. "That makes sense. Monsieur, you said you'd give me some money?"

* * *

**That was a long chapter. It's twelve pages on Microsoft Word. I have a four-page research paper due Friday. This took me five days to write. I've had the research paper for a month, and I have two and a half pages typed. I feel like a winner. This is for all of you readers, so appreciate it! Just kidding, but a review would be so nice. **


	9. Turnabout

**TheTreesAreFullOfStarlight-EE- Thanks! I hope the movie does elaborate on them. I'm excited and nervous for the movie- I'm not sure how I feel about Aaronjolras. I hope the fandom doesn't change, like it did for Phantom. Still excited, though. **

**Mary x- Thanks for the review!**

**CreatorsOfWorlds- I'm glad you like my characterization! I work really hard on getting les Amis right. It's hard.**

**Jade- I have never heard of My Fair Lady. Is it good? I Google'd it, and from the Wikipedia description, I guess it could be similar. Cool connection! Thanks for the review. **

**And to all the people who have subscribed but have not left a review; please leave me a review! I'm desperate. I want to hear what you like and don't like! **

**This is short and kind of stupid, but it's important to the plot, somehow. Not my favorite chapter. **

* * *

"_Ah," Eponine said, nodding. "That makes sense. Monsieur, you said you'd give me some money?"_

* * *

Enjolras felt vaguely disappointed at her plea. He had hoped that she had come beyond such pettiness. It could be forgiven, he supposed, considering her plight.

Eponine looked at Enjolras with expectant eyes. It was a look that might have been hopeful on a prettier girl, but looked somewhat demanding on the homely face of Eponine. Her brown eyes glittered when she watched Enjolras take out two silver pieces and hold them out for her. It obviously took all her self-control not to snatch the money from the pale hand that held it out.

She remembered her manners at the last moment. "Thank you," she said gratefully, quickly shoving the coins into the pocket of her too-big coat.

"You're welcome," Enjolras said. "You made quick work of it," he told her, a faint note of approval in his voice.

"I told you, monsieur! I told you I could! When you move off the main roads, everything goes so much quicker," Eponine reminded him, tugging on the lapel of her coat to straighten it out. The coat was unsightly, but it had kept Eponine warm in winters before. Three, to be exact.

"Yes, well. Feuilly, I'm going to leave you now to your work. Tonight, at the Musain, we will talk more. Until then," Enjolras said with a nod.

"Until then," Feuilly replied, reaching out to grasp Enjolras's forearm on his way out. Their eyes met, and Feuilly returned the nod meaningfully. The gravity did not escape Enjolras; he could see the words unspoken written in the fan-maker's brown eyes. The words mirrored those Combeferre had spoken earlier concerning Eponine.

"Goodbye, Monsieur Feuilly! I do hope you'll come speak to me tonight. Nobody wanted to talk with me last night, not until Monsieur Enjolras and the two others came to me at the end. It was dreadfully lonely, and I do not know the others much. I was a bit sad that Monsieur Marius did not come to talk to me. He usually does," Eponine told the fan-maker. "And the bookish man, Monsieur… who was it? I don't know, he tried to talk to me, which was very kind, but I think he thought I was someone else at first. And Grantaire is not very good for talking to," she added.

Feuilly smiled. "I promise I'll come talk to you, so long as our fearless leader hasn't gone to totter about on tabletops once more," he said with a wink to Enjolras. Enjolras's lip twitched amusedly, and took Eponine out of the shop.

Feuilly sat down at his workbench once more. He could empathize with Eponine; when he had been young, he had _been_ her. Their upbringings were remarkably similar, with a lack of parental guidance and an eternal struggle with hunger. Where had they deviated, though? Where had Feuilly turned the corner from poverty into the working class, while Eponine had gone to prostitution? She must have reached some point where she would either go forward or fall behind, some crossroad of destiny that would shape her life. It was apparent that she had gone down the wrong road, and she was paying dearly for her mistake.

* * *

In his own life, Feuilly had reached a breaking point. He had been fifteen at the time. He remembered it vividly; it had been snowing and raining and hailing in rotation for days. He had been sleeping out on the streets, and his last meal had been eaten no less than two days before. He recalled such intense hunger and hopelessness. He had known that if he did not get out of the weather and eat something, he would perish soon. Bourgeoisie and workingmen alike walked by him as he huddled in the doorway of a closed shop. Not a one looked down at the slowly dying boy. It was such loneliness. Feuilly had nobody to talk to, nobody to care for him. Solitude destroys humanity, and Feuilly felt any morals he had kept for himself slipping.

Feuilly forced himself to get up and walk around to chase the chills from his bones. His walk took him past the market, only for him to be chased away by the stallholders who knew him as a petty thief. A loaf of bread here and there had never harmed anyone, but now Feuilly was eyeing an obviously very rich man with a fancy great coat over two waistcoats. Rings glittered on the man's fingers. Just one would feed Feuilly for a month. Abandoning the marketplace, Feuilly quietly followed the man down the street, pulling a short, rusty knife from his waistband.

Feuilly stalked the man through the faubourgs, soundless on bare feet that had remained shoeless for far too long. The streets were dark, and the homes and stores were all silent, save for one.

It was an atelier, with paintings hung in the windows and the smell of oil paints and turpentine wafting from inside. Light shone out of the open door of the atelier, and raucous sounds of conversation and laughter escaped. The students and masters who learned and taught their craft had been taking part in some late-night revelry. Curious, Feuilly turned his head briefly, but quickly refocused on his prey.

Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he advanced. He opened his mouth to call out his demands, but he could not find his voice.

_It's wrong_, a voice whispered in Feuilly's head. He faltered momentarily. _What has this man ever done to you?_

_You're hungry, you're poor, you're parentless, _a second voice said. _This man will survive with one less ring on his fat finger. You might not survive the week without it. _

So Feuilly resumed creeping stealthily towards the man, trying to voice a command as his inner demons squabbled_. It was survival, nothing more,_ one side of him insisted. _It is not wrong if it saves your life._

_What would your parents think? _the first voice pleaded.

_Your parents are dead. They cannot see your actions. But they would like to see you live, wouldn't they? _the second voice sneered.

_God can see._

_If there was a God, he would not have allowed this to happen!_

Feuilly grabbed at his temples, pulling at his hair before clutching his stomach. He felt blind fury at himself, the rich man not forty feet ahead of him, the king, his parents, _God_. All of his frustration began to boil in his blood. He clutched the knife in a terrifying grasp and slowly raised it, tensing in anticipation.

Then he thrust the knife to the ground, rejoicing in the clatter of iron on paving stone. He turned himself around in the street, putting his back to the rich man who had been unaffected by all these happenings.

Feuilly looked intently down the dark street.

The door of the atelier was still wide open.

* * *

**Sorry this was short. I hope to have another chapter up soon. I've been very busy! Thanks to all for the reviews, and remember, if you've subscribed but haven't left a review, I would greatly appreciate one! Thanks!**


	10. Author's Note 1613

**Hey, this is Archer here. I had somewhat abandoned this story, I got too busy with school and sports and band and stuff, but I've been getting a lot of followers, favorites, and SUCH kind reviews that I'd like to pick Blackbird back up again! You guys did it; you got me off my ass and writing again! Except, I have no idea where I should start again…**

**So I'm going to ask you guys for suggestions: Where should I pick up the story at? Where would you like to see Eponine and Enjolras and the rest of the students? I'll take ANY suggestions you've got; I have such a writer's block! D:**

**Really, any ideas would be appreciated, and whatever I find most inspiring I'll start the chapter with, with credit to whomever helped me out. Thank you all so much! **

**Archer**


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